


Snag

by Arcanista



Series: This Broken Melody [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (but with claws), (deception/intoxication), (dubiosity is textually addressed), (voyeureeism?), 0 to Smooch in 40k Words, 5.3 spoilers, Accidental Voyeurism, Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Bondage, Brooding, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, DIY Necromancy, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Erotic use of the word 'flensing', F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gags, Knifeplay, Lore Compliant, Lotus Eater has Bad Friends, Low-level panic attacks, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mid-Canon, Mild Autocannibalism, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Napping, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, POV Third Person Limited, Pain, Porno achieved by word 50k, Post-Canon, Present Tense, Roommates to Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers but Nobody is Happy About It, Slow Burn, Still canon-valid as of 5.1, Technobabble, Tempered Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Tempering, Theoryfic, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Vibrators, Wizard Bondage, WoL is Not Okay, catnapping, everyone is tsundere really, femroe 4 lyfe, individual chapters are noted with the content warnings as needed, moving to, tsundere emet-selch, wizard vibrators, you know those slow burns that are like double slow burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-10-17 14:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 91,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: Isolated by power, by circumstance, by trauma, the Warrior of Light finds herself drawn in by the words of Emet-Selch and the knowledge he dangles just out of her reach. It becomes painfully clear that the two are far more alike than comfortable for her to admit, and that his need for an ally is real. She is no ancient sorcerer, but she bears the remaining glory of fallen Mhach, and she has ever been resourceful. Even the inevitability of death is malleable, to one brilliant but unwise.She will save all possible worlds. She must. To die trying is not an option.





	1. Like Someone Else's Pain

She feels as though she is somewhere else, in someone else's body. Her mind roils over a memory of hushed conversation, hidden away from her. Light, light, she is suffused with pure elemental light, with stasis and passivity, and is this distance caused by that?

She wets her lips, mind casting backward as she tries to maintain at least a semblance of attention on the present, nodding when expected of her.

It's like pain isn't _real_; she knows she felt this way all through her travels in Il Mheg. It isn't as though she made it through the fae's games unscathed, to say nothing of Titania. It still _hurt_ her to be impaled by a tree, her lungs still burned with strain as she channeled aether through her staff, still thought about how the rib was probably cracked (it had been; you didn't spend as much time on the battlefield as she had without learning to recognize those injuries the conjurers wouldn't catch then and there). It still hurt, she still _feels_ pain, still felt annoyed by the rock that had wormed its way into her boot as she tromped through the forest.

But it's like she's feeling that pain through thick gloves, or another boot, or a soft feather pillow. The pain hurts her like it's someone else's pain: real, important, but something to be detached from, something to be weighted against other matters. Is that new? Did she feel that way before she took in the Warden at Holminster? Before the First?

"Unfortunate?"

Minfilia's voice startles her from her reverie. She blinks behind her spectacles, pulls them from her face, and rubs them on her sleeve. She barely feels the cool glass, but she doesn't lack for any dexterity in her fingers, everything working as it should. "Pardon?" she asks, settling her spectacles back into place, ignoring the smear across them she's just introduced.

The girl cranes her neck to look up at her, concern writ broadly across her earnest face. "If you don't want to stay here, I don't think you have to. It sounds like it should still be a few hours until everything's sorted. Maybe you could get some rest...?"

She begins to demur when one of the viis speaks up. "The baths should be free at this time. You may freely make use of them, and refresh your body and mind, should you not wish to sleep."

It does sound better than clogging her head with sleep; a sleep that will do nothing to satisfy the bone-deep weariness that runs through her. She bobs her head in the vii's direction. "Thank you," Unfortunate says. "I fear a nap would only leave me groggy. A bath sounds perfect. Can you direct me?"

Y'shtola's eyes are on her as she pads off after the vii, no less judgemental for her harrowing experience in the Lifestream. The hairs on the back of Unfortunate's neck prickle, and she wonders now what shape her aether takes. Perhaps Y'shtola is wrong.

After all, there's a first time for everything. _Damn it_. She's brooding. At least she won't be inflicting it on anyone else for the time being.

For a blessing, the baths are both on solid ground and as empty as promised. A fence of bushes offers a modicum of privacy, and trees teased into closer growith provide shade. The acrid scent of the water suggests the pool is fed by a natural hot spring, and the palpable heat threatens knots deep set into her back even just standing here, fully clothed.

Unfortunate focuses on the sensations in her fingers as she unbuckles her coat, carefully peeling away the stiff leather and good felted wool a little more as each fastener and button comes undone. It's heavy in her hands, from the weight of the fabrics, from the intricate matrix of crystals embedded within that protects and empowers her, from sweat and blood and smoke. She lets it drop a foot or so away from the pool, hears it land with a dull thud.

She feels it all, feels it perfectly, hears it with clarity, but it's someone else's ears, someone else's fingers. Her undershirt falls atop the coat, the dozen pearly buttons not impeded by this distance. No, she felt like this back in the Source. This distance, this alienation from her own body, her own situation. The liberation of Ala Mhigo-- the assault on the Ghimlyt Dark. Between them, as she felt odd walls drawing between her and her friends. No less friends for it, but the silent isolation of power, the presence of a pedestal however short.

She catches sight of her face in the water as she strips her smallclothes away, and she frowns. No, not her face. Unfortunate bends, sifting through coat pockets for a small hand mirror, one leg still caught in her underthings. She kicks it away and eases herself into the pool, dropping her spectacles on top of her pile of clothes.

Deep enough for a vii is nearly deep enough for a roegadyn, and Unfortunate finds the water up to her chest as she settles onto a seat on the edge of the pool. Despite herself, she feels muscles begin to ease as the heat and water attacks them.

Keeping her hands free of the water, she lifts the mirror, a little past her face. Pale fingers spread out a lock of curled hair, stretching it straight. She frowns at the hairs against her fingers and at their reflection in her mirror. One grey hair stands out amidst the dark; she plucks it out, barely even notices the feeling.

She smiles, leaning against the wall of the tub. Thinks of a night in the Ruby Sea, around a campfire with Alisaie and Lyse. When Lyse had first caught sight of a few stray grey hairs in the midst of her pitch-black tangle of curls. "Stress," she'd said, and made a joke of it, laughing as she plucked them. "We can't all be so lucky as Alisaie. We won't know when things start hitting her until she wakes up one morning, bald as an egg."

Had she felt so apart from the world at the time? Felt that remove from her friends, felt somehow _idolized_ even by these people who she'd fought with, bled with, who knew when and how she ate and slept and shat, who borrowed her spare socks for bandages?

Grey hairs aren't new. But is her hair paler than before? Bleached by this endless light? Or by the light within her? Surely Urianger would have mentioned it to Y'shtola if that was the case, if it was concerning. Or did he before she caught the edges of their conversation? She passes the mirror back and forth, dips it into the water to keep it free from fog, squints her near-sighted eyes to try to get a clearer look at her hair, to compare it to the haze of memory.

"Ah, vanity. Definitely a favourite."

She starts at the sudden voice behind her; the mirror slips from her fingers into the water. She scrambles to grab it before it sinks too deep, water splashing, an Ascian's chuckle a dusty counterpoint. "I was under the impression you had better manners than that," she sputters, droplets of water escaping her lips.

Unfortunate turns to fold her arms on the edge of the pool and finds herself in the unusual position of looking _up_ at someone; the expanses of fabric of imperial robes, the blurred medals on fuzzy coat. She lets the rest of her body float up to the surface; he'll be able to see her ass but you don't live on battlefields or go on long cross-country treks and get to keep your compunctions about giving someone an eyeful. And she _knows_ it's nothing he hasn't seen before; you also don't get a succession crisis on your hands with your clothes on. But she'd still be willing to bet money it's a ploy to unsettle her, walking in on her in the nude like this. Well, he'll learn that he needs to try harder if that's what he wants to do.

The Ascian shrugs, which mostly means that one slumped shoulder rises to an even level with the other for a second or two. "I announced my presence, did I not?" He lowers himself to sit near to the edge of the pool, close to her pile of clothing. He pays it no mind, and takes a few moments to arrange his robes away from the water.

"It's not vanity," says Unfortunate, lips pressing together; she feels the frown. She doesn't feel inclined to elaborate her concerns to her enemy. So she deflects. She reaches out to her clothes and grabs her spectacles from the top of the pile. She tosses them onto the Ascian's lap. "If you're going to be here, you'd might as well make yourself useful. Clean those for me, would you?" She pauses, then adds the afterthought. "Please."

Emet-Selch looks down at the spectacles, then back at Unfortunate; she can't make out his expression at this distance. She expects him to refuse. Instead, he lifts them up and peers through the lenses. "The imperfections that crop up in mortals these days never cease to amaze me. I wonder what would happen if an enemy knocked these free in a battle? Could you still tell friend from foe?"

Unfortunate grunts by way of response, pulls her legs beneath her, and reaches for a bar of soap. She lifts it to her nose, trying to identify the herbs the viis have used to scent it. Something lemony, and minty, and something else she doesn't have a name for, something medicinal and astringent. She ducks her head beneath the water, then starts scrubbing the bar of soap through her hair. She could almost swear she sees the Ascian's mouth shift judgementally, but it's hard to tell. "Just clean them if you're going to or put them down."

Pinching the bridge of the spectacles between gloved fingers, he slides the arms open. With surprising delicacy, he places one lens in front of his mouth, parts his lips, and blows gently. He repeats this with the other lens, then reaches into an inner pocket of his coat, shaking loose a pristine white handkerchief. Emet-Selch buffs away the fog of his breath from Unfortunate's lenses, then turns them over, repeating the process on the other side. He folds the handkerchief around the lenses, then closes the arms to hold it in place.

The steady build of lather in her hair ceases as Unfortunate's fingers freeze in place. She forces them back into action, not wanting to show her surprise as the Ascian sets her neatly wrapped spectacles down onto her pile of clothing.

He shrugs again, that same lopsided gesture. Thal's ruptured ballsack, how could an eternal being have _terrible posture_, of all things? "I thought perhaps rescuing your friend might have been a sufficient show of good faith, but if that one extra step is what you require, it's hardly an inconvenience."

Unfortunate ducks beneath the water once more, scrubbing the soap free from her hair, working out the caked-in grime and blood and sweat and hiding her bemused expression from him. When she bobs to the surface, hot water running in rivulets from her hair down her shoulders, her breasts, her back, she says, "Well. Thank you for this, too."

Emet-Selch lifts a gloved hand and waves it off dismissively. "Think nothing of it, hero. Better you be able to see the Lightwarden when you strike it down." He unfolds himself and rises, rearranging his robes to fall straight. "I'll not interrupt your ablutions any longer. I find myself in need of a nap."

She watches him shuffle off, a slow motion that would be more of a saunter if he would just _stand up straight_. Unfortunate reaches out, dries her hands on a towel nearby, and picks up her spectacles.

The handkerchief Emet-Selch has wrapped them in is brilliant white silk; she lifts a loose corner to find it translucent like fine porcelain, not one stray thread or gap in the warp or weft of the fabric. The edging is a thin border of painstakingly intricate lace, tiny holes defining a maze of a pattern. Unfortunate rubs her thumb against the handkerchief, feeling the lens through it. Even water-softened, it feels as though her callused flesh might snag the silk, might pull this ephemeral thing apart.

It's hard to resist touching it; she is enthralled by the sensation of her rough thumbprint in the silk. She forces herself to set her spectacles back down on her clothes and turns her attention back to the soap.

Mostly by reflex, she winces as she scrubs over a purpling bruise. It hurts, but it hurts like it's someone else's body. Someone else's pain, someone else's sensations. Unfortunate ignores it and continues. There's a lot of her left to clean.


	2. Mortal Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find themselves seated together, drinking: her whisky, and him wine. Neither shares what it is they see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a sex scene at the end, but not the one anyone is hoping for.

There is no mistaking it. Unfortunate pushes the magnifying mirror aside; it doesn't offer any extra insights she hasn't already seen in the larger vanity mirror. Her hair fading, bleached, blasted by light. But as far as she can tell, that's the only outward effect; her skin pale but not unnaturally so, dark circles standing out starkly beneath her eyes. Even her lashes are different, black gone a dull brown-grey. The bright dye that streaks her hair is untouched, still a bold gleam of colour amidst the newly-drab locks.

The stubble under her arms is the same way; not a physical effect of the light from the sky, then. No, she is filled with enough light that it is staining her body as well as her soul.

Seven feet of roegadyn falls onto the bed with a morose flop as Unfortunate considers the situation. Does her best to be rational. Y'shtola wouldn't notice a purely physical change, but would notice something about her aether. Has noticed enough about her aether to make her aware of the need for concern. She hadn't made it sound urgent, and it was only her hair.

She wasn't in any real pain; she'd noticed some discomfort when she took in the light from the fallen warden in the Qitana Ravel, but honestly it wasn't anything easily discerned from normal battlefield injuries and discomforts.

Worth worrying about, she concludes. But not worth panicking about. No need to trouble Y'shtola about it; the situation is, if not under control, then at least has a controlled pace to its escalation. Not worth raising a fuss about.

Right then. She'd might as well at least show up for the celebrations. She's always drowning in invitations to this party or that, all of whom are eager to have the Exarch's good friend, herself one of those who did battle at Holminster Switch, attend. She ends up declining more than she'd like, most of the time. Her mornings tend to be dedicated to planning out the next expeditions, to recuperation from wounds, to lying flat on her back, counting bricks in the ceiling until her breath steadies, her heart stops racing. Too much carousing would cause quite the dent in plans such as that.

But there's time before they need to strike out next; Alisaie still has yet to arrive with word. A night out might do her some good. At the very least she might be able to work off some energy, find herself someone whose appetite is less for drink and more for mountain-climbing. Or, the way her moods have been lately, to have the mountain come to bear on them.

Unfortunate rises and returns to the vanity. One prism she shines on her hair to darken it back to its natural state; in so doing the difference is laid utterly bare. Another she passes over her face, smoothing the complexion, dismissing the faded remnants of cuts and burns, leaving a few cosmetic scars behind. The dark circles beneath her eyes fade away, her pores contract, and the pimple on her jawline simply vanishes. The third prism provides a final layer of adjustments; smoke for her eyes, definition for her lashes, a subtle highlight to her cheekbones.

Atop the glamour, Unfortunate applies her one physical cosmetic: a deep, blue-toned red to her lips. Her clothes are fine as-is; a turtle-necked sweater in dark wool, some well-tailored pants. Nothing fancy, but presentable enough for the Stairs and wherever she winds up after.

Aloud, she speaks, "I'd like a bit of privacy tonight, Ardbert. I hate to leave you to your own devices, but I don't think I'll be back until very late. Have a good evening. I'm-- I'm doing all right." Who knows if he's actually there? He could already be out, enjoying watching people celebrate the return of the night. But it doesn't hurt to be polite.

Everyone she passes on her way to the Stairs seems to know her, though the reverse is definitely not true, and jubilant small talk is the way the evening starts. She doesn't really mind it, especially since nobody seems to need any odd jobs done-- just people laughing at things like tripping over their shoes in the dark-- the _dark_ of all things!-- and warm goodwill. Happy, relaxed people who are almost unused to the feeling and learning it for the first time in their lives.

Unfortunate smiles, and tries to share in the joy, tries to let it penetrate the certainty she has that it's all going to go to shit sooner rather than later. Every last one of those people she passes knows it will too, and that only leads them to treasure that joy more.

_Because this will pass, it is beautiful_.

The drinks are still free at the Stairs, but Unfortunate insists on paying as always, for the nature of her order: a bottle of their peatiest whisky, twelve years old if they have it, but most critically: _unopened_. She accepts a tumbler to go with it, and sweeps her gaze across the barroom floor.

There is an Ascian slouching at a table in the back, people watching.

He isn't visibly paying attention to her, and she doesn't pay him much mind as she flirts with a pretty little Mystel with muscular archer's shoulders and an infectious laugh. Unfortunate regales her with a story of one of the few times she's ever tried to use a bow, snapping the string against her cheek hard enough that it had stung for hours.

It's going great until her date arrives. Unfortunate holds onto her smile and bids the women farewell as affably as she can.

He's still there, nursing a half-empty glass of dark red wine. Curiosity gets the better of her. She snags a chair from a nearby table and pulls it over, sits across from him but faces the rest of the room, like he is. "Do you mind?" she asks. He lifts a hand and flexes the wrist, fingers stretching out. She takes it for an assent and sets her glass down, takes the time to carefully examine the bottle's seal.

The ritual satisfies her after several minutes of turning. She opens the bottle at last and pours a half-ilm to start. Emet-Selch does not watch her as she holds the glass in the palm of her right hand, fingers pressing against the rim. Unfortunate closes her eyes for one breath, two, aligns aether within, then raises her left hand. A tiny droplet of ice forms at the end of her fingernail and falls into the drink without so much as a splash.

The ice melts into the body-warm whisky and its aromas release like a sigh. Unfortunate lowers her hand and raises her glass, taking a slow sip, savours the tastes of campfire and caramel and burning. She leaves the impression of her lip on the glass, faded crimson. The whisky doesn't ripple when she sets the glass on the table and she returns her attention to the joy of the Crystarium's people. One eye stays on her glass. Always on her glass.

"Giving up so soon?" Emet-Selch has one eye on her; his tone is lazy, disinterested. "And you were doing so well out there." 

Unfortunate rubs one thumb around the rim of her glass. "I didn't think you were paying attention," she says. Across the bar, a young man boldly approaches a woman he'd been stealing glances at for some time.

Emet-Selch lifts his glass to his lips, doesn't sip. "I told you. I like to watch."

"So you did." Two men near the door steal kisses from each other, holding hands tightly. They leave together. "It's still early. I'd rather pace myself."

"Hm," he says, and finally takes a sip of wine. Emet-Selch swirls the glass lightly afterward and sets it down. "Your companions seemed quite disturbed by what I said to them the other day. You, on the other hand, did not."

Unfortunate turns her head to look at the Ascian, hand curled around her glass. "Hm," she says, an unconscious echo of the sound he just made. How long has she spent considering, really deeply contemplating the distinction between god and primal? If there even really is one? If it actually _matters_ at all one way or another? He's certainly not telling her the whole truth, but she doesn't believe he's lying. Lies are more work, best used only as needed. Salt, but not the meal. "They haven't seen what I've seen. Not all of it, anyway."

Emet-Selch glances at her, then looks across the room. He lifts his glass again and just holds it, frowning almost absently. "Is that so?"

"It is." Unfortunate picks her drink back back up and looks at the table through the amber liquid. Almost without thinking, she says, "The Allagans sought to bind primals. While physically within the world, that primal cannot be summoned. Such is my understanding, anyway." She sips the whisky, savours the burn in her nose, and continues, softly, to voice one of her greatest fears to one of her greatest enemies. "But I am no longer on the Source. Obviously. And the world moves without me. Even if now it's at a similar pace-- it only takes an instant for things to fall apart."

She lowers her voice a little more. These are not words to be said outside her own skull, let alone in public. But speaking them she is, so she at least ensures no one save her intended audience will hear them. "What if they do, while I am here? Not even a Calamity, a Rejoining. Some mundane horror that threatens people day in, day out. Someone experiences something that drives them to desperation, too close to too many crystals, and they cry out-- 'Where is the Warrior of Light? The Warrior of Light could save us! The Warrior of Light _will_ save us!' And belief, and clarity of need, and aether combine..."

Unfortunate drains her glass and pours herself another, hand rock-steady. She continues, "Is it so different than how Ysayle could evoke her belief in Sainted Shiva? How Archbishop Thordan called down King Thordan? I don't know if that's actually possible. I'm not even asking if it is. That's not my point. My point is thus: if this is something I could reasonably conceive of, with no expertise but more experience than any other mortal of the age, how disturbing _should_ I find it that a being I have been raised to revere as a god might, too, be created in such manner?"

Emet-Selch chuckles around the rim of his wineglass. "My dear, you should know better than to give me _ideas_," he says, then finishes his glass, leaving only a few red droplets clinging to the sides. "Your... _fascinating_ supposition aside, I admit it refreshing to have at least one of you take me at my word."

"A man who sleeps as much as you is only going to expend the effort to think of a lie if it's absolutely necessary," says Unfortunate. She shrugs, somehow painfully aware of both her shoulders being involved in the gesture. "Don't take that to mean that I trust you. I'm not stupid. I don't think."

One corner of Emet-Selch's mouth curls up into a smirk. "Of course not. I would expect no less of you, dear hero."

They sit together in silence for a few moments more. Unfortunate watches a game of darts; a waitress drifts by unbidden and refills Emet-Selch's glass. He nods at her graciously, taking a slow sip.

Unfortunate glances at the Ascian's wine. "I never really thought about Ascians sleeping, before. Or drinking."

"I imagine you never thought of much besides killing us," says Emet-Selch, and Unfortunate's answering smile while sheepish is unashamed. "These _are_ mortal forms, with mortal needs. I eat. I sleep. I breathe. Should you prick me, I would bleed. That's malleable, of course, but only a fool would push a form beyond its limits too far or too fast. Not if they intend to continue use of it, anyway. Lahabrea could be so hard on his vessels..."

She has an urge to make a vulgar comment but suppresses it. Instead, something else occurs to her, and she pads through her pockets. She produces the airy white handkerchief he used to enfold her spectacles after cleaning them. Somehow it is just as clean as it was when first she touched it, through battle and being shoved from garment to garment without so much as a second thought. She leans across the table, letting it dangle from thumb and forefinger. "I almost forgot. This is yours. I should give it back."

Emet-Selch's gloved hand brushes hers, curls her fingers around the delicate silk. His fingertips linger on the back of her hand, sending a strange aetherial tingle against her skin where he contacts. It feels like-- "Keep it, my dear," says the Ascian, sounding vaguely amused. "I have others. Consider it a 'good luck token'. Certainly you could use one."

She can hear him invert those commas around the words 'good luck token' as precisely as a mammet-maker would align the gears within. And just like that, he withdraws his hand, leaving her clutching the cool white silk, trying to puzzle out the familiar sensation his touch had evoked. She merely nods, and returns the handkerchief to her pocket, taking up her drink swiftly thereafter.

Her throat soothed by her slightly too-large sip, she says, "I'll leave you be, then. I could use some fresh air." She rises, forcing herself to move slowly. She refills her glass, and says, "Tell the barmaid she can take the bottle back with her when she's here next, would you?"

"Of course," says Emet-Selch. He doesn't so much as look in her direction. "Enjoy yourself, hero. You have only so much time within which you may."

Unfortunate Incident strides away, making the conscious effort to not read too deeply into that. Of _course_ there's an ulterior motive. It's just not going to be worth puzzling it out. 

Perhaps an hour or two later, she finds a likely man just outside the Stairs, a dark-haired hume who doesn't look at her with anything resembling awe. They chat, and she doesn't bother getting his name, but he is positively _enflamed_ at the thought of activities which too many might consider unmanly. She grins, flashing teeth at him as they make some discussions, laying out boundaries and needs. 

He suits: willing and eager to take the pent-up frustration of a woman nearly twice his size, hurt but not harmed, left long before sunrise. They leave together. He has a place in the Pendants as well; she leaves for her own rooms just long enough to collect a few necessary implements.

His body shudders beneath hers; he clutches at the blankets and gasps. Her sweat drips from her chest to his back; in heavy murmurs she checks that all is well. Unfortunate tries to lose herself in the sensations, to drink in the sheer physicality of it, the tension of muscle, the heat of flesh.

She is almost able to convince herself that her orgasm is real. It doesn't matter. Her breath is real, her exhaustion is real, the release of energy is real. That's all she expected; that's all she needed. She sees to her partner, puts on a pot of tea for him, and leaves him in that muzzy-headed haze of one well-satisfied.

Unfortunate's chambers are empty, even of ghosts.


	3. A Subtle and Insidious Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She will never stop.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ stupid_!_ Unfortunate rams her spectacles higher up her nose, using the gesture to hide her attempt to force her mouth into a more neutral state. She thinks it works, hopes it works, tries to separate herself from the rushing drumbeat of blood in her ears. How could she have been so _stupid_? 

"... you would find it quite indistinguishible from from the truth." The Ascian's eyes are up on her, the mild disgruntlement writ across his lips fading into a dry smirk. Damn it, he can _tell_ he's somehow set her off; he cottoned on to Thancred basically instantly, after all. Unlike with Thancred, he doesn't needle her further about it. But he's watching her.

She purses her lips in lieu of wetting them. "That's not what I--" Her voice is steady enough; no normal person would tell that something's wrong. She doesn't think. "You know what? Never mind." She turns away from him, back to face her companions. "Anyway. I put in for a rush order but my coat's still in for repairs until tomorrow. That arm got completely shredded. Much as I'm going to hate life going through Amh Areng wearing black leather, I vastly prefer the notion to the alternative. Let's meet up at lunch tomorrow and take stock of any last loose ends that need to be dealt at that time. Alphinaud, I trust you've got a handle on securing supplies for both groups?"

Responsibilities for planning the venture into the sands split with practiced ease, even with Thancred absent on his huff. Urianger ends up taking the hit and volunteering to apprise him of the arrangements. Minfilia doing it is out of the question right now.

Unfortunate keeps it together, somehow, despite a mingled burble of rage and terror right beneath her surface, echoing those few words of Emet-Selch's that had snagged her focus so securely, the assurance of her own, damnable, utter stupidity. "Right," she says, when she can take no more of this, can't handle being around another human being. "I'm under strict instructions from the chirurgeons to use this salve on my arm every two hours I'm awake until it's used up, and if I wait any longer I'll be needing to do it on the road. I'm going home, and I'll get to packing as soon as that's done. I'm probably staying in to eat, so nobody worry if you don't see me later tonight."

She's not falling apart as she strides purposefully through the Crystarium back to the Pendants. It is literally the opposite: she is a perfect knot of coal, compressed, ten thousand years from becoming a diamond. Her composure remains mostly intact through the walk, long legs making short work of it.

The doors to her rooms are only locked for a second before she quietly starts banging her head against it. "Stupid, stupid, stupid..." she murmurs under her breath, eyes squeezing tightly shut. Her spectacles askew against the door, she feels her breath fog them. Her right bicep begins to ache. It doesn't matter.

"Unfortunate?" Ardbert's voice is unusually quiet; he's taking effort not to startle her. She doesn't turn, doesn't lift her head. "What's happened?"

_It was only natural._ Stupid, stupid, supid. "Something that damned Ascian said," she says hoarsely. "I'm sure he said it to try to get to me. Well, it worked. I need some time to calm down before I can really talk about it. Did I leave that alchemical salve on the table?"

Ardbert goes silent for long enough that Unfortunate wonders if he's left. But eventually he says, "You did. Will you really?"

"Will I really what?"

The clink of spectal armour sounds as Ardbert shrugs. "Talk about it. To me, or to whoever. It's your choice, of course."

Unfortunate sighs, and pushes off the door. She straightens her spectacles and then, relying heavily on her good arm, she peels her shirt off heedless of Ardbert's casual attention. Still got her smallclothes on, that's decent enough for a ghost. She frowns, examining her right bicep. The flesh is lurid red and purple, alchemical glues sealing lacerated muscle and skin back together. She probes one of the longest wounds with her fingers, absently taking stock of the spurt of pain she feels. "Yes." She flexes her bicep, and has to shut her eyes against the pain that lances through her detachment. "Probably." Very carefully, she curls and uncurls each finger on her right hand, then balls it up into a fist. "Maybe. I don't know." Halone's _tits_, it hurts.

"As long as you're sure," says Ardbert dryly. He steps out of Unfortunate's way as she makes for the table. "Look, just..."

"I know, I know." Unfortunate sighs, and opens the jar of salve. She scoops up a good dollop on her fingers, and starts rubbing it into her arm, focusing on the glues that are about the only thing holding some of this muscle onto her bones. Relief is almost instantaneous, a blessed numbness easing the pain of her arm. "But this, I don't _want_ to share it. It's-- I just don't."

Ardbert shakes his head, watching her slowly apply salve to her arm. "Let me know if you change your mind. I'll leave you to it, I guess."

Before Unfortunate can respond, he's gone. She frowns. All right, he's not wrong, but-- how's she even supposed to approach the subject to anyone? _It was only natural_. 'By the way, Alisaie, I was chatting with Emet-Selch and he said something which had some very concerning personal implications.'

She wipes her hand on her pants, closes the salve, and heads back for her shirt. Ah. There's the rub, isn't it? There is someone who could offer her additional clarity. Maybe even tell her she's completely misunderstood. Unfortunate runs her hands through her hair. It's probably just as stupid an idea. And how could she even get in touch, it's not like she has a linkpearl for him.

Unfortunate closes her eyes and takes a deep, deep breath. She stands in the centre of her chambers, shoulders steady, listening for-- anything. Nothing. Feeling foolish, she puts her lips together and she blows.

Nothing happens. She peels open one eye and then the other, looking around her empty chambers. Well, what did she expect? An Ascian just popping into her private rooms just on the strength of a little _whistle_?

Stupid. Stupid of her. She throws herself into a chair, and rubs her face with a thin silk handkerchief. She just needs to try and ignore it, then.

The knock on her door nearly makes her jump out of her skin. She rises, dampening her lips. Just a coincidence, of course. It has to be. Her breath in her throat, Unfortunate cracks the door open and looks down.

Emet-Selch's hair is a little tousled, eyes just a bit bleary. He shrugs at her confused blinking. "What? I was napping. Surely you didn't call me here just to disturb my sleep."

"I--" Unfortunate hesitates. That he actually came is... "No. No, I didn't. I wanted to talk a little more. Would you come in?" She steps back inside, opening the door further for him to join her.

"Don't you have friends for that? Packing to take care of?" Nevertheless, Emet-Selch joins her, casting an eye around her living space while she shuts the door behind. "Or was there something else, that you would feel a need to seek me out?"

Unfortunate's heart throbs in her chest once more. He has to have at least some idea what this is about, if he's half as perceptive of her as he was with Thancred. "Was something you said, actually," she says. Rhalgr's lubed fist, how is this so hard to actually broach? "You, uh. You mentioned that you, the Ascians. That you were tempered by Zodiark."

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes. "If you want me to just stand here repeating myself, I'll be most upset. Upset and bored." He shuffles past her to pick up an orange from the basket on her table. "Or did you somehow come this far convinced that only half-mad beasts were subject to tempering, in spite of everything you've encountered?"

"No." Unfortunate wets her lips and takes a deep breath. "No, after that." _Hear. Feel. Think._ "You said that there's no resisting such power." Floating in the absence of everything but Her. The Garlean soldiers enraptured just by being _near_ the bound, insensate Sophia-- or was it Zurvan? Twelve, she can't even remember anymore. "What did you..."

"Oh. I see what this is about," says Emet-Selch. He pierces one gloved thumb through the bottom of the orange and begins to peel. "Well, if all you want is for me to confirm something that you already in your heart of hearts know, I want to hear you say it." He drops a fully-intact orange peel into a little heap on the table.

"What?"

The Ascian splits the orange in half and separates a section. He pads closer to Unfortunate, tilting his head back to look up at her. Despite being a good fulm shorter and at least a hundred ponze lighter, Unfortunate finds herself taking a step back at the sudden imposition into her space. Emet-Selch smiles, half his mouth curling. "You heard me. If you want to ask me a question you already know the answer to, I want you to ask it directly. Say the words that have made your blood run so very cold, Warrior." He pops the orange section into his mouth, chews it slowly.

She refuses to be intimidated. Refuses. Not by this little rat of a man, Ascian or no. Unfortunate stands straight, glowering down at him. One of the scars on her chest burns from the force of her breathing. She shuts it away, tries to shut it all away. Her voice is too much like silk in her ears as the words come, "I have seen Her. Been in Her presence. So too must I be-- enlightened by the glory of Her will, even as you and yours have been benighted by His."

"Was that so very hard?" Emet-Selch asks, splitting off another orange section. "I have no particular reason to believe otherwise."

And like that it all rushes out of her like a lanced boil, the tension, the terror, and numbness returns. She exhales slowly and deeply. "When you approached us," she says softly, "I assumed it was because you wanted to somehow persuade or turn me to your cause. I don't think it's egotism to say I thought that would be a fine feather in your cap. But that wouldn't work. There is literally no power on this or any other star that you could bring to bear against me that would cause me to turn my heart from Hydaelyn. My will is Her will, and not--"

Emet-Selch flips a hand dismissively, cutting her off. "Not your own? Nonsense. You wouldn't be much good of a champion if you were just some mindless thrall, and much as I hate to admit it, you have been a devastating force for your 'Mother' entirely of your own free will. You have, after all, spent your whole life thinking Her will, Her words, Her causes are entirely the right thing. No, I think you will find the effects of such a stain on your soul to be a far more subtle and insidious power than that." He bites an orange section in half, watching her.

Assuming he's telling the truth. Assuming. Unfortunate looks away from him, trying to think, and-- it's so obvious she hardly even needs to spend the time on it. Not her will to do right, not for her devotion to Hydaelyn. But her need to continue-- against devastatingly cruel odds, through wounds that would send armies into retirement, if not their graves. To do what must be done, no matter the cost. Her bone-deep exhaustion no sleep can cure, an exhaustion not of the body but that of a being in its entire pressed beyond all reasonable limits, pressed endlessly, and never breaking.

He's watching her, gauging her reactions. He's still eating that damned orange. Her orange, that he didn't even ask if he could have. And yet somehow, saying it, releasing it, knowing it-- it tastes like ashes in her mouth but the panic is gone. The fear is gone. Just dull, grim recognition.

"You know," she says, her voice somehow more conversational than she feels. "Before the Exarch called me here, he spent some time trying to get through to me. I mean, you already know that, it's why my friends are all here. What you may not know, but I also doubt it surprises you to hear, is that his attempts to reach me caused absolutely excruciating pain. It struck at some of the worst possible moments, but you know what? I never once considered stopping what I was doing, not seriously. Before all that happened, I--" her words do stumble now, but she swiftly recomposes herself. "_I_ tried to convince _my_self to just let it all go. Give it all up for good, hide on a beach somewhere. But I never seriously entertained it. Never really thought about why. Just knew I never would, for good or for ill, until it was all over."

Unfortunate looks down at her palms for a moment, then back up at her Ascian guest. "So anyway, the last time the Exarch tried to reach me, the time he finally did, I was fighting your colleague in Zenos' body. Zenos, now... right, I don't know how old he was when you exited the stage but by the time I knew him, he was an absolute monster. More relevantly, he was better than me. I mean, I'm big, and I'm strong, and pain isn't going to keep me down, and I safely can expend enough aether to kill half a dozen people before I even need to think about opening up my real bag of tricks. But I'm not fast on my feet. And I'm not very good with a sword-- no finesse. I can use one to protect me and mine well enough, but I'm not half so comfortable as with a staff, which means I really don't care to face swordsmen in battle. Not in a duel situation, anyway. In a fair fight? I would have had no chance."

She pauses, and heads for her liquor shelf. Flips herself down a tumbler and pours in a splash of thin syrup, just enough to cover the bottom in a layer. Two dashes of aromatic bitters-- she pauses, then adds two more. She examines a line marked on one of her liquor bottles, wipes it off with her thumb, and pours herself a good two onze of the rye whiskey into the glass. Sets the bottle back down, waits for the liquid to settle, and marks the level. "The thing is, though," she says, picking up an untouched orange and zesting off a healthy twist. She works her fingers over it, releasing the oils into her drink, and then lets it drop; only then does she give the whole thing a short, thorough stir. "Despite all that, and this is stupid, the thing I was most worried about with Zenos, the real Zenos, I mean, was that if he did somehow manage to kill me, that he'd fuck my corpse after I died. Solely for the pure revelation of feeling _something_. Your colleague's not a great actor; he never really captured that quality."

Emet-Selch's mouth twists into a more pronounced disdain. "Do you have a point you intend to reach, or is it just to subject me to such grotesquerie?"

"I do." Unfortunate lifts her drink and drains half of it in one go. This one's going to hurt. "I think we're in agreement that only an absolute idiot would do battle under such circumstances. I was outmatched, I was terrified, I was going to die in pain with a madman wanting to do Twelve knows what with me afterward. Didn't even think about hesitating. Wasn't the tiniest consideration. I'd do it again if I had to. But Nald riding Thal's dick, it's _exhausting_. Was even worse by the end, when it was your colleague. I was basically alone, you know? I kept going, kept moving, and I... mostly I just felt like a train with no cargo. I had a destination, and I was going to get there, no matter what was in my way, but I..." She shakes her head and finishes the drink off.

"So in the end I'm running like the fate of the world depends on it-- which it did-- to reach the fake Zenos. There's people I care about who are going to die if I don't. And I get there, and so him and me, we fight. And you know, he lacks Zenos' feral edge, but that just makes it worse. We fight, and I'm doing my damndest, and I'm going to win, and I know it, and he knows it. Then the Exarch's reach hits me and I just-- it takes me _down_. And Zenos or whoever, he doesn't let that opportunity go to waste. He stabs me. Impales me, really."

Unfortunate pads back toward the Ascian, stands close, but not forcing it beyond the limits of politeness. Making sure Emet-Selch is watching, she touches the scar that troubled her earlier, pushing her left breast up a little with one palm and demonstrating with two fingers the spot against her shirt. "Here," she says, then turns, reaching to press higher, further to the side on her back; just under her shoulder blade. "And here. And let me tell you, for all the pain of contact across worlds, what I was most aware of was the feeling of that _sword_. I felt every. Last. Ilm of that thing plunge right between my ribs, puncture my lung, come out through my back, and pin me to the dirt. It must have been less than a second but it felt like _years_. And, you know, I really, genuinely hope that you have never in all your aeons of existence ever learned on a deep and personal level what it feels like to be struggling to breathe when there is _steel_ in your _lung_ and you are looking up and you can see the trail on the sword of your own blood as you slowly slide down it." Her own breaths nearly wheeze as she probes the memory.

"And you know, that wasn't even the end of it. The sword hadn't even come out yet, and then it _had_ and all of a sudden there's all this _blood_ in my lung and draining out my back and it's coming up my windpipe as I try to breathe and instead of air coming out of my mouth and my nose it's this horrible bloody _foam_ and I'm drowning, I'm literally drowning in my own blood and Estinien is only seconds away and I have no way of knowing that, and all I do know is that the world's going black around me and Zenos is lifting the sword again and I have this one instant of perfect clarity and the only thing I can possibly think is this: I'm going to die. And do you know what I felt, thinking that?"

For all Unfortunate's lurid description, Emet-Selch's face is still a mask of only the vaguest of interest. "Unending agony?"

"Happy," says Unfortunate. "I was happy. In a way that I-- it's not like I was thinking, 'Oh, well, I had a good run, I did my best', or 'I saved as many people as I possibly could', or 'I did what I could to hold back the tides of darkness', or even 'I hope he gets gangrene'." She does impose her physical presence on Emet-Selch now, her hands balling into fists. He does not move, even as she looms over him, looking directly down, her breath coming hot, where it can only land on his face. Her voice is a quiet, fierce bell as she says down to him, "I was happy. Because I could finally _stop_."

Emet-Selch flinches.

She steps back, removing herself from his space. For a moment his expression flickers, from its calculated affect of smug exhaustion, to something else, something stricken. Or perhaps it's merely a trick of the light in this space. Softly, Unfortunate says, "At least now I know why I won't. If you want to call that knowledge a gift, I hope you'll forgive me that I don't thank you for it. But your own honesty requires that I return that favour." She shuts her eyes tightly, willing her breath to steady, trying not to imagine the horrid whistling sound of her flailing, failing attempts to breathe in that moment. Unfortunate feels, rather than sees, Emet-Selch shift somehow, then the soft thud of fabric as his hand drops. When she opens her eyes, there's only the faint ripple of his robes' skirts to suggest that he made any motion at all.

"Regardless of your thanks," says Emet-Selch, and the mockery in his voice has a strange other edge to it, "you are nonetheless welcome. To that, or to any other insights I have to offer."

"I need to pack." Her voice has a hollow ring to it in her ears. Her bicep throbs with dulled, distant pain. She pulls her spectacles off, closing her eyes again; she blindly rubs the lenses with the handkerchief from her pocket.

A moment lingers only to evaporate, then Emet-Selch says, "Of course you do. Oracles to meet, a Warden to find. I look forward to seeing the results of your search... hero."

As he passes by her, his hand touches her hip and lingers there for a moment; easily just him brushing her aside. But a strange aethereal tingle makes her very aware of the gesture, cool as water in winter even through leather glove, through rumpled shirt, through thick denim trousers. She swallows before saying, "I apologize for disturbing your nap. Have a good-- rest."

One hand on the doorknob, Emet-Selch looks up to her, making direct eye contact. "I always do," he says breezily. And like that he's gone.

When Unfortunate locks the door behind him, she is only certain of this: that was the first time since they have met that he has outright lied to her.


	4. Polyglot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first and only candidate.

They sit cross-legged on a cushion in their office, eyes closed and senses wide open. Their awareness drifts throughout the Hall of Rhetoric, humming softly with the discussions therein, save for those in spaces designated for privacy. This is their gift: to feel the inherent language of all things, to understand and to know. They feel bees pollinating flowers outside, singing their songs of joy, the solemn dignity of the buildings, so proud to shelter those within their embrace.

Closer, they feel the more normally vocalized words of their secretary, speaking with an unexpected guest. Reluctantly, they draw themself inward, center their awareness on their office space. They straighten their smooth white mask, lifting their cowl over a spot where it had snagged. Their hair spills out from their cowl, resting in auburn curls on their shoulders. They leave it; an acceptable individuality.

Their door opens. "Director Chrysanthe?" Their secretary peers inside. "I apologize for disturbing you during your break, but a courier from the Fourteen has arrived on official business. May I see them inside?"

"Of course," says Chrysanthe, bowing their head. Official business, is it? How unusual. It isn't uncommon for them to offer consultations to individual members of the Convocation, where their insights might have value, and there are other, unofficial, more personal matters... What official business could the Convocation even have for the Director of the Hall of Rhetoric?

The courier shuts the door behind themself. "Esteemed Director," they say, and extend a hand holding a thick, creamy envelope. "I bear tidings to you from Azem of the Convocation of the Fourteen. He asks that I invite you to his office to discuss them, once you have reviewed his words, unless you have other pressing business this afternoon."

Chrysanthe accepts the envelop but does not open it. "From Azem, not the Convocation as a whole? But this is an official Convocation matter, you say?"

"Yes, Director," says the courier, hands calm at their sides.

"I see," Chrysanthe says, and looks to the envelope. It's just like their old mentor, to send them both a living courier and a handwritten document, on occasions where privacy is needed. Others might look to paper and see a thing that can be mislaid, that can be gazed upon with any eyes. But he would not speak a secret thing, for a secret spoken can be heard by anyone with the right ears, the right senses. So too have they held to this principle: only fitting that they hold a position that requires so much paperwork.

The letter reads:

_The Azem requests the company of Director Crysanthe of the Hall of Rhetoric_

_to discuss matters pertaining to his iminent retirement and succession of the Office of Azem._

Chrysanthe blinks and rereads the letter. Twice. Then they fold it and place it flat on their palm. With a wisp of thought, they dissolve it into its component aether; it vanishes as if it never was. "Hypatia," they say.

"Director?" asks their secretary, poking her head back into their office.

"Please, cancel my appointments this afternoon. It appears I have urgent business in the Capitol."

* * *

Azem's office is just as they remember it; brightly lit via wide windows that offer a tremendous view of the city of Amaurot spreading out below. Shelves full of books, and models of plants and animals, and delicate concept-sketches of syntaxes, glimmering in half-complete states everywhere room can be found for them. Souveniers and mementos of journies glitter in places of reverence, moments preserved in time like amber. A lace of meaning dangles from the ceiling, words spinning gently around each other, soft and inviting. The office seals behind her, glimmering with the wards that would mark this space for privacy; a thin veil against those whose gifts might intrude without intention of disturbance.

Chrysanthe smiles, catching the turn of a phrase as it passes. Azem takes their hands, holding them briefly in greeting; his smile is merrier than they remember, and behind the mask his bright eyes show a mischevious light. "Director! It's been far too long. How has the Hall of Rhetoric been keeping my favourite student?"

They sit across from each other, in comfortable padded chairs around a low table. "Busy," says Chrysanthe. "But fulfilled. More than I ever imagined it would, to be honest. It's humbling, to be the custodian of the voices of so many."

"I always knew you had it in you," says Azem. "You were wasted on academia. The work you've done with the Hall has been truly magnificent, making of it a true monument to connection with our fellow citizens."

Behind their mask, Chrysanthe's grey eyes light with their soft laughter. "I hardly know what to do with this flattery, Irenaeus." His personal name seems more suited to the moment than that of his office. "You were never so kind when you were seeing to my papers. But speaking of things I can scarce believe-- what is this about you retiring?"

Their former teacher smiles. "Direct as ever. I've put in a good long term of service, and though none of the Convocation are rushing me off, I've been genuinely inspired by the talent that's been joining us of late. I'd like nothing more than to see our society shaped by more new minds, new ideas. Not to mention picking up my old research at last... you'll recall my work on the grammar of birds. I still haven't finished that work."

"And what does this have to do with me?" Chrysanthe suspects. There are only so many reasons one might be called on official business to a private audience regarding a retirement. But they are too polite to voice it.

"Because I am not about to retire without seeing one of those bright new minds rising up to take my place," Azem says. "I was preparing a list of potential candidates for my successor. Your name was at the top of it-- and do not think for one second as to feign surprise, Chrysanthe. There's few who I think would be better fit to take on the role of Azem, and you yourself are aware of it."

Chrysanthe lowers their gaze. "Mayhap," they allow. "Could I ask how many candidates you have on your list?"

Farandaniel shrugs. "A handful. Any of whom I would be pleased to put forward to the Convocation for consideration. But should you be interested, yours will be the _only_ name I put forward. I appreciate your work in the Hall. I would very much like to see it writ on a far grander scale than that."

_The office of the Azem!_ Ambition is unseemly, and so they would never admit to having dreamed of, not least because of their own inclination to introversion. Far too many would call them too timid, too self-directed. But-- no, not Azem, _Irenaeus_ knows them too well, sees how that nature drives them to treasure every connection forged. "May I have some time to consider this most generous offer?"

"Of course you may," says Azem. "But not too long. My birds are calling me."

* * *

The two friends lounge on divans opposite each other, drinking nectar from fluted glasses. Evening falls across Amaurot, and balconies in this establishment afford a rare opportunity to drink it in from the centre of it all. The lights of the city come alive in all directions but behind, and in Chrysanthe's opinion there are few better places in Amaurot to feel the sheer majesty of the place.

The perfect place to share the news with this, their closest of friends. "Before I say one more word, Hythlodaeus, I cannot emphasize enough that this is in _absolute strictest confidence_. Not one notion of this has been made public yet. Do I have your word on this?"

"Naturally," says Hythlodaeus. His easy grin broadens. "But that only makes it easier for me to guess what's going on. Are you going to share, or will I have to start telling you my own ideas?"

Chrysanthe takes a long sip of nectar. "Oh, do not. Very well then-- I was summoned to an audience with Azem this afternoon. Evidently, he is looking for a successor. I am his first, and-- should I accept-- only choice."

Hythlodaeus' vocalization of delight is only a little bit surprised. "Do you mean to? Accept, that is?"

"Of course I do. But I need to look into my own replacement first. Even after everything I've done, there's still too many in the Hall who see debate as a superiority game, and not a means of building greater understandings of the hearts of those around us. I will not see that work go unfinished simply because I have been called to another task."

"And that is why you will do the office only the greatest of honour," says Hythlodaeus. He finishes his glass, and asks, mischief lighting in his eyes, "Have you told our mutual friend yet?"

Chrysanthe's lips lock onto a frown around their glass. "No."

His grin grows wider, and he looks ready to burst into laughter. "Are you certain? 'Twould be no trouble for me to locate him for you."

"He can hear the news from Azem himself when he raises it at the Convocation's next meeting. After the stunt he pulled with his own investiture, that man deserves nothing less."

Hythlodaeus collapses back onto his divan, fair howling with laughter. After reaching up under his mask to wipe a tear from his eye, he says, "What a delight it will be to think of the two of you working side-by-side once again. You really should invite him to celebrate-- when the news is public, if you won't now. Put a smile on his face."

Chrysanthe drains their nectar and sets the glass upside-down on the table between the two of them. "Now you sound like a match-maker. He broods too much. And I doubt he cleans up after himself."

"You went into a two-year sulk when you discovered a new argument and realized you had no context within which to use it."

"You see?" Chrysanthe waves with one hand. "Picture two of that. It would never work. I doubt he'd even be interested if I broached the subject, and you know him, he'd _never_ raise it himself."

Hythlodaeus rests the back of his hand against the forehead of his mask. "And the two of you won't even just _talk_ to one another! You don't need to doubt it if you just approach him. I despair for you both, I really do. You're both letting something precious slip through your fingers. Just _let_ me set something up for the two of you-- you'll enjoy yourself, I swear."

Chrysanthe closes their eyes tightly, seeking a silence within. "Hythlodaeus?"

"Hm?"

"This is why you're single."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps hood of fanfic* this baby can hold so many slow burns
> 
> * * *
> 
> <s>I'd rather use one of the names that we have no material on rather than completely make up a whole new office out of nowhere, if anyone was at all curious. Worst comes to worst, I do some retconning on the title.</s> Continuity retroacted. At the very end of the fic you'll find a complete list of alterations.


	5. Aflame with Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't need to outrun the lion. You just need to outrun whomever you're with.

She concentrates. She's good at that. She concentrates on her entire body. She thinks she looks normal. Maybe a little uncomfortable. That's fine. No one expects her to be in perfect shape right now. So she just listens. She's good at that.

The bustle of the Crystarium sounds like ocean in her ears, off in the distance. A perpetual roar, soft and insistent. It moves with the pulse of the white glare that fringes her vision, and if she lets herself become too aware of it, it begins to sound like music.

Someone else listens to that music. Someone else feels the perpetual roiling burn inside of her, that fire with no heat, the agony that threatens to crack her very soul. Unfortunate lets it be a pain that happens to someone else: yes, she must stop it. Yes, she must offer ease to this suffering. No: it will not be the thing that overwhelms her. She merely occupies this poor, battered body. She can push it past its pain.

_Is this_, she wonders, _what being an Ascian feels like?_

But she does not have the luxury of quitting this body, for all its breaks and scars. At least, she doesn't think so, and she has no desire to snuff the identity of another with the force of her Echo should she be parted from mortal flesh, so she is not about to try.

A traitorous thought snaps back to that cult she once fought with Lalai and Zhai'a. Those poor fools burning themselves from the inside out, unable to endure the raw amounts of aether black magic pumps through the body, using the self as a conduit. Shatotto's gem is cold against her chest where she wears it, over her heart. Too late now to run all this aether through it, and it's purely umbral besides, which without any astrality would likely strangle the Mhachi artifact. Well, perhaps she can still handle what comes. There is, after all, only one more Lightwarden ahead of her.

A distraction: she should take Lalai to see Shatotto's memorial in the ruins of Mhach sometime. She'll even take up her sword for the excursion to fend off the wildlife, let Lalai glory in the perfectly appropriate outlet for destruction. It shouldn't be too difficult to persuade Zhai'a to keep her patched up through it; his curiosity is too insatiable. Hopefully the two of them have finally managed to get together while she's away.

She forces a smile as she strides into the Ocular. Her friends she greets with as good a cheer as she can muster; Emet-Selch gets a polite acknowledgement. He has a strange look in his eyes as he watches her; one somehow less guarded. Or is that her imagination? It must be.

Unfortunate contemplates his demonstration, considers the explanation of the Shards, and Rejoinings. It's absolutely monstrous, though she's at least moderately certain that his barb about murder is mostly just intended to shock. Well, it does, at least a little bit. Mostly that he'd state it so plainly. It's to be expected that he would be cavalier about loss of life.

... ah, but what _are_ his expecations for her? That they could be so high. Just for her capacity to bear pain? No, of course not. And she is not going to ask, here and now, what his 'lesser tragedy' might be. Surely not just Rejoinings.

Some mad whim leads her to ask him his name instead. He refuses, of course. But is he pleased that she asked? She thinks that he is, and she does not know quite what to do with that.

There's one more question she wants to ask him after that. But not here in the Ocular; not in front of the Exarch. So, not for the first time, she deflects. "Off to Eulmore, then. I should go home to--" _lie down_ "-- get my things together. Walk me back? I think I feel fine, but if I'm wrong, I'd rather not be alone." That's it? That's her excuse? She should be ashamed of herself.

And yet, he doesn't question her pretext. "Oh, very well," he says. He lets out a theatrical sigh, but his voice doesn't sound nearly so put-upon.

The walk is slow, with his languid shuffle and her moving with likely greater care than is warranted. The weather is mild, pleasant; a cool breeze stirs her hair. It would be lovely, were she not walking side-by-side with an enemy. Maybe it still is. There's something freeing about it; he can't betray her because they're not _allies_. "Are you feeling all right?" she asks, glancing at him. His expression is still a little... "You seem off, somehow."

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes. "I'm in a good _mood_. It happens, you know. Here, come with me." He swerves, still heading in generally the right direction but staying outside.

Curious, Unfortunate follows his lead. "Now I'm really worried," she says, and she hears a strange noise. It takes her a second to realize she's laughing. Actually, truly laughing. It feels like it's been a while.

He takes her to, of all things, a little green space out back of the Pendants. He finds a likely apple tree and seats himself, leaning back against the trunk. Emet-Selch waves a hand at her, gesturing at the soft grass. "Well? You have a question, don't you? Or some ghastly personal anecdote. You're getting predictable, hero." Half his mouth holds a smile.

Unfortunate joins him on the grass; for a mercy the tree isn't big enough for them to sit facing the same direction. She leans against it, strikingly aware of his epauletted shoulder a couple ilms from hers, but she can look outward, across the grass easily enough. It feels good, sitting down; so nice to not have to expend the effort of _standing_. If only she could call the notion laziness. It might be nice to be lazy, for once. "Just one question. Well, a thought and a question." She tilts her head, looking down at him.

"Go on, then."

"The thought first, I guess," says Unfortunate. She rubs a thumb against her eyebrow, then pushes her spectacles up. "I'm not entirely certain I followed with what you were saying about Hydaelyn and enervation, and how that interacts with your Rejoinings. So Hydaelyn strikes you and you're suddenly cleft in twain, all right. Half everything. I can accept that. But compare me and the people here. I don't feel seven, or eight I guess, times more strongly than anyone living here. I'm not eight times better at arm wrestling someone of my general weight and build. I'm not eight times taller, and I'm sure as every hell not eight times smarter. When the last Calamity hit, I didn't suddenly get, uh, whatever percentage more capable at basically anything I was doing. If you were talking about _only_ something like aether capacity or something more ineffable than that-- I'm no aetherologist, but I'd have an easier time getting my head around it."

Unfortunate rubs her face with one hand now, her spectacles sliding into momentary disarray. "So clearly what gets divided is more complicated than just what you said; that's fine. You need to start somewhere with understanding. But something about it doesn't sit right with me. _Identity_ isn't divisible. And even if I were to accept the premise that sundered beings are in some way _lesser_, that doesn't... I mean, I don't go around killing dogs, or birds, or..."

She trails off. She doesn't _intentionally_ go around killing wildlife, at least if it isn't trying to kill her. Can she say nothing has unintentionally died as a consequence of her magic? Has she ever really cared enough to even think about it?

Emet-Selch makes a low, thoughtful 'hm', falling silent for a moment. Then, he says, "Let's suppose for a moment that standing between you and a task of utmost importance is a dog. Not a puppy. Let's imagine that this is a particularly _ugly_ dog. Perhaps it has mange. In short: while in the abstract, you may appreciate the existence of the animal, you don't really care about it. In the process of accomplishing your task, that dog will die. Not because you wish it to, but as an inevitable consequence of your actions. Will you let that impede you? What if it's two dogs? A dozen? A thousand?"

Silence falls between them. Unfortunate does not do him the discourtesy of a snap, facile reaction of 'Of course I'd find another way!', or any such thing.

So many people have died in the process of accomplishing her tasks.

"My question, then," she says hoarsely.

His voice is quiet, his head tilted up and over toward hers. "Ask it."

Some tree bark snags in her hair. She reaches back and wipes it away. "Your path of lesser tragedy... you certainly sounded as though you expect it's something I might potentially go along with. As if, what, I'd somehow abandon Hydaelyn and take up Zodiark's banner. And we both know that it doesn't work like that."

"That's it?" Emet-Selch chuckles quietly. "My dear, I don't need to convince you to offer up yourself unto Zodiark. I merely need to convince you that there is something in Zodiark that Hydaelyn considers worth fighting for."

She feels her jaw go just a little bit slack. "But that's-- how?"

Emet-Selch's gloved finger hovers an inch before her lips, where he gives it a brief waggle; a chiding gesture, but somehow almost a playful one. "Really, didn't you hear me? _After_ the final Lightwarden. We can discuss the matter more then. Besides. If I read you aright, now that I've mentioned it, you'll hardly be able to think of anything else until you come up with an idea of your own."

Unfortunate looks down at that finger, at the rest of his hand imposing so close to her face. She very nearly wants to... no. She darts her hand out, grasps his wrist tightly, as if to shove him away. She doesn't. She feels a thready pulse where thumb and middle finger meet, the faint stretch of leather glove where she twists his hand just so. Against her palm, the back of his hand tenses, then relaxes; fingers brushing the inside of her arm limply. There is something in the feeling of it-- body heat, but also cold, a bone-deep chill that's somehow...

It feels so _strange_, like... When Ardbert touched her earlier, the sensation was that of, of when she brushes aside the remains of a scab and sees new pink flesh where there will never be a scar. Like touching that spot and realizing: there is no wound here. A sensation that passed through all of her at once. It didn't last, but the pain that's returning is dulled. Manageable, for now. Emet-Selch's hand beneath hers is... it's like balm on a burn. An ease, not a healing; perhaps the scarring will be less. And only where she she contacts him; the rest of her is still aflame with light.

His eyes meet hers; the look in them is almost entirely unlike despair. But that too is present, and other emotions she does not care to name. She nearly feels as though she could.

Unfortunate looks away, blinking a few times. She lets go of Emet-Selch's hand; he trails his fingers up her palm. For a fraction of a second, he gives her hand a squeeze, then pulls it away entirely. He shifts, slouching further down against the tree; by the way he adjusts his coat, it looks as though he means to settle in for a nap.

She slides down as well; still not precisely beside him, but beneath the same tree. By the time her head lolls onto his shoulder, both are well and truly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strap in kids this is gonna hurt before it gets better


	6. Too Little too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Provided _she_ can contain and control the light.

One mortal being, stretched beyond all possible limits. Blessed by that eldest and most powerful of primals. She does not break. She c͢an̕not̵ break. She w̛i͝ll̡ not͜ ̵b͜r͘ea͠k.

_she_

_is_

_light!_

She scrabbles at the ground, desperate, clinging to it, only mere gravity keeping her from falling into the sky above. The sky the sky the sky is afire with her light, there is no darkness here there is no darkness anywhere she burns she lights she _h̤͆̄̋̚ù̯̝͉̫̹̉̏ͮ̾ͭ̊n͊̋ͨ̉g͕̹͙͈̦͈e͙̣̩̩͚̟̜̿ͨ̾r̳ͯs̹͇̪͒_\--

Her jaw is set so tight that if her teeth slip even a little she might well bite her tongue clean off. She doesn't scream can't scream won't scream feels her throat try to scream but her mouth won't open because she won't _let_ it where is Urianger she knows he's here he must have a plan he implied it and he's only good for lying and plans why isn't he doing anything?

Footsteps, sandals on the ground, the voice that says that which she fears: that this is too much for anyone to bear, even she and her eight-part soul. She _knows_ that voice, that nagging familiarity stronger than ever-- not as the Exarch, but something before that--

Razors of pain sever all thought; she spills light out in their wake like purest blood. But with clarity she hears him say: _he will relieve her of this pain_. That will kill him. She knows it. So too does he. She cannot permit this, will not permit this, she can endure. She will endure this, that is who and what she _is_.

She is Unfortunate Incident, she is the Warrior of <strike>Light</strike>Darkness _so much light, twelve, so much light_ and she will not permit the Exarch to die for her. She refuses! Hydaelyn's blessing is so thick in her throat as to choke her, what _good_ is it if she can't use it to--

An arcane wind flows his hood back and she sees that face, knows it, recognizes it even through the haze of light. Her lips mouth his name and she does not know if they make any sound.

One mortal being, bleeding light

stretched

and stretched

and stretched

And with the languid desperation of rope abrading against a cliffside, the myriad threads of herself begin to fray.

She

frays

(no, not like that)

(but what a cruel joke)

Would it not be so much easier to

j̸u̢s̡t̛

l҉e̛t̛͏

g̸̛̕͜o̶̸̡͢͞?̵̵̶̡̕

She reaches for G'raha Tia's hand. She cannot endure this. If he will spare her, then she will walk this coward's path. He smiles like moonshine down upon her. _I was supposed to save you!_ She does not know if she screams the words or if they merely rip her mind apart. His fingers are close, so close, and--

It is not the sound of the gunshot that thrusts her senses back into her body. It is the smell of burnt gunpowder in the air, the smoke curling from the barrel of Emet-Selch's gun. She is still in too much pain to do more than stare as best she can through the doubled haze of impaired vision (where have her spectacles fallen to?) and the blazing white light engulfing everything she sees.

G'raha Tia falls.

Unfortunate rests her forehead on the ground, panting for air, trying not to choke. She is inhaling something incendiary; her throat burns her lungs burn everything is burning she incandesces she wrenches her mind through pain and terror to focus on the words she is hearing, the Ascian's words, his placid dismissal of G'raha's efforts.

She forces one foot flat on the ground, manages to kneel. Emet-Selch's contempt strikes her like a second gunshot, piercing through her agony and redoubling it. What does it matter what he let himself believe? What she had let herself believe, too? She never doubted that she could, not truly. Her fears had been a child's fears, of the sharp wrench of pain from re-breaking a bone to set it. Fears of a fleeting pain, a thing that will be overcome with difficulty, but no real risk.

She was a fool. Is a fool. _They_ are fools for believing that perhaps this one time--

But she is not yet a monster. It is through will alone that she forms words with her lips, forces searing air through her lungs, and asks a question she already knows the answer to: his intentions. So he directs his answer to her friends.

This is not a betrayal: they were never allies.

No matter what he ever considered. Moot: it is all moot. She cannot contain all of this Light. She is, after all, only mortal. So very, very mortal.

Bile surges up from within her, forces its way up her throat. She tries to contain it, she cannot contain even this much, and she vomits forth an unholy mixture of blood and acid, all white, so white on the ground.

Emet-Selch kneels before her; they meet eye to eye. In this moment the world is his face; she anchors upon that, foolishly, but if even for a few minutes she can hold onto _something_...

His voice is a caress to draw her down into despair: the same despair he says she will bring. It enfolds her, a dark liquid clinging close. Only half his mouth smiles.

As he rises, he reaches about a fulm away from her, and picks something up. Wipes it on his robes. And then he sets her spectacles back onto her nose, gently tilting them into place. With clarity, she sees him look down upon her, and then turn away to watch him steal away her <strike>new old</strike> friend.

She is fading, she is fading. With all the force left in her mind she clings to the name of the place where one of them is going to die.

Her tether to herself snaps, and she falls to the ground.


	7. Ascendancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of this is a ritual.

These robes are a shameful vanity. And a mistake. Oh, from the outside they look no different from any other set of the communal robes (they've chosen the variation with loops on the sleeves that they can thread their middle fingers through; it keeps them from flopping around too much), but the _inside_, oh, they've innovated there. Threaded through the inner lining of their robes are, to be too prideful, a masterwork: concept schema for establishment of lines of meaning, the pathways by which understanding may flow. This is some of Chrysanthe's most abstract work; the review at the Bureau took decades, owing entirely to the need for specialists to do the examinations.

Against Chrysanthe's skin, the schema is warm, familiar, powerful. But are they truly so insecure that they must bask in such reminders?

Pah, pointless. Their work is _brilliant_; they have every right to take pride in it. And if they need a little security for their soul, well, they also have every right to be nervous sitting here, waiting for the Convocation's summons. Let their life's work be their armour in this.

Hades has told them nearly nothing about the proceedings to come, merely that he cannot speak of it. He does provide assurance that what they'd been told about being laid bare before the Convocation was only partially a metaphor. That, and with one of his wry half-smiles, that the meetings aren't usually this interesting.

There will be physical contact; of that they have been warned, though not of its nature. A mischevious part of them imagines fanciful orgies, but this is a professional organization, and not that sort of profession. This is merely ritual: a formal dance that has continued for so long their mind dizzies to think of it.

A voice in their ear bids them enter the chambers, to proceed to the centre and sit. The sound is familiar, but they do not know it well.

Chrysanthe rises. They tuck their hair (blonde this year, and pin-straight) into their cowl, and tug the hood deeper, head resting in the back corner. Their heart pounds. Everything is already settled. This is mere formality. Their blood has no business racing so.

The door parts before them. Thirteen figures in the chamber, seated in a ring. A single chair, dead-centre. Chrysanthe makes their way to it, and sits. They place their forearms upon the arms of the chair, palms up, exposing their wrists. They lock their attention forward, to the head of the circle (Lahabrea?); they regard his red mask with as much calm as they can muster.

He makes a single, sharp gesture, and the world before Chrysanthe goes _black_. Not as if they are blinded, but simply as if a curtain is drawn before their eyes, absolutely impenetrable. They hiss between their teeth, but deny all other reaction. This is how it begins.

"Siblings of the Convocation," says the one before them-- definitely Lahabrea, they're certain now. Even if they did not know the voice, it is his right as Speaker to begin proceedings. His voice is fluid, resonant, rich with power. "We gather because there sits amongst us an empty chair. Esteemed Azem has withdrawn from our company. This one would rise to take his place. Who comes before us now? Speak, supplicant."

A few moments to breathe, to gather their voice. "Chrysanthe, scion of Euthymia of Amaurot."

From Lahabrea's right, another voice speaks-- Mitron, they think. "Your name is known to us. But I would know who you are. Speak not of names nor titles. Unfold yourself: let us know the shape of you."

"I am gifted with the ear to hear the voices of all things," says Chrysanthe. "To hear and to understand the inherent languages of being. My life's work is in studying the origins of meaning and the need to communicate this to others; to create means by which what is considered voiceless may be understood by those with greater power; the means by which we may achieve a desired result through a conscious voicing. I have recently ended my term as Director of the Hall of Rhetoric, where I harmonized these goals with that of the Hall's, in the name of the Hall's mandate to serve all Amaurotines. I have sought to ease the divisions of thought that lie between us and create connections of understanding between citizens in recognition of the value of all."

Like so, it proceeds around the circle. Halmarut inquires as to how deep the languages span: to trees, to seas, to things yet unliving? Yes and yes and yes. Nabriales questions their earliest work; Elidibus probes for insights as to how the lines of language may be used to forge new ties. Each in turn bids them speak, delivering a new angle unto themself for judgement. 

Chrysanthe's throat burns by the time the circle passes back around to Lahabrea. Their wrists they have not moved, facing up, veins tense. Their fingers twitch.

"This one has spoken for themself," says Lahabrea. His voice is calm but not devoid of emotion: an ocean crashes there that they dare not devote the focus to read. "Who will stand for them?"

The sound of a chair being pushed back, to their left. "I will." Elidibus. No great surprise. "We have collaborated on numerous occasions; their insights have proven of utmost value to my service as Emissary."

Next stands Igeyorhm, citing a consultation Chrysanthe had performed for xem so long ago they'd nearly forgotten it, a matter that had needed to be settled between two creative collectives.

Lahabrea again: "We hear these voices brought to support the investiture of this one to the seat of Azem. Who amongst us would oppose this?"

From directly behind comes the response. "I would." A voice Chrysanthe knows better than any other of the Convocation. Their cheeks flush; their hands ball into fists that they force to relax. Heedless, Emet-Selch continues. "They are a creature of great pride and a willful one at that. Their vanity over their accomplishments is most unseemly, and the hand they took in the Hall of Rhetoric was one of strict control; micro-management. We of the Convocation cannot let our own fondness for our accomplishments take precedence over _taking_ new action, nor do we have the mandate to spread our responsibilities so thin."

Chrysanthe rocks forward in their seat as cleanly as if he'd struck them from behind. Lips pressed tightly together, they straighten; it almost does not register when Loghrif disdains them for a bureaucrat who has drowned a municipal department in even more paperwork than before. This is ritual. Everything has already been decided. Someone must stand in opposition, clearly.

Did it have to be him, though? The betrayal stings, small as it is.

A mock-battle ensues around them, Elidibus leading the charge on their behalf: he speaks passionately of the need to clearly recognize the value of one's own work, of Chrysanthe's mandate to uplift the voices that would go unheard. No less passionately does Emet-Selch decry what he deems empire-building, or the burnout that comes from needing to handle every little thing oneself.

Sweat trickles down the small of Chrysanthe's back. They are not so certain now, if this is staged. Perhaps that's the strength of the show: a reenactment of real debates they had over this matter? They hold their calm as best they can, palms in the air, still in the air, trying not to make fists.

When all arguments are presented, Lahabrea bids the gathered thirteen, "We all have heard the voices for and against raising this one to our number. Let us heed these words all and now vote: a two-thirds majority shall be required. Let silence fall until all are cast."

They itch. Beneath their robes, where the tiny beads of sweat just rolled. The scratch of pen to paper echoes throughout the chamber. No one tests the silence.

One by one, Lahabrea reads the anonymous votes. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Lastly, yes. "In all, the votes stand ten to three. The will of the Convocation is thus: to elevate Chrysanthe, scion of Euthymia of Amaurot to the seat of Azem, endowing them with all the duties of that office. Do any here call to reject this will?"

No answer comes. "So be it," says Lahabrea. The veil of darkness falls from Chrysanthe's eyes in time for them to see Lahabrea's gesture dismissing it.

He strides toward them, stopping right in front of where they sit. He lays his hands atop theirs for a few seconds, then reaches to draw back Chrysanthe's cowl, spilling their pale hair across their shoulders. Their breath catches as they look up at Lahabrea; his smile is kinder than they expect. They need it, if he is to expose them so. They think they can guess this next bit--

It comes. Lahabrea settles gentle fingers against their mask, unfastens it. They feel the blood rush to their cheeks as he draws the white mask away, exposing them, bare-faced to him and the others. Their skin feels clammy, chilled in the air, unused to feeling it so.

"Do not be afraid," murmurs Lahabrea. He turns from them and raises to his full height. He raises their mask high, turning for all the Convocation to see it, then lets it fall to the ground. It rings through the air as it shatters. "Let this be the sign of the shared bond amongst us: the casting-off of masks. Let our faces be known to them, and theirs unto us."

He faces Chrysanthe once more, and bends. He lifts a hand to his crimson mask and lowers it. They swallow and take in his features: a heart-shaped face, a little crease between his brows; dark hair slicked back into the depths of his cowl. He sets his free hand atop theirs and leans in to rest a kiss on their lips. He does not press it: they feel the softness of the gesture, a faint, echoing scent of spice lingering around him. "Be at ease amongst us, sibling," he says, his voice pitched for their ears alone. "For we belong to you as much as you belong to us."

Lahabrea withdraws, replacing his mask. Elidibus comes next; there is the little scar on his chin that they knew already, but not the matching one by his nose, and they had never marked him for one to have a small, glittering stud pierced right through his eyebrow. He presses his cheek against theirs, holding their hands tightly. His breath in their hair, he bids them to take joy in this moment of ascendancy, before the work sets in.

So they all come to Chrysanthe, each one in turn, and they memorize each face. This is Igeyorhm, with an upturned little nose and breath that smells of cherries; xe kisses their eyelids gently and says that xe always knew they could do it. Pashtarot, whose eyebrows are unkempt and rests his face in their hair. Halmarut who watches with such scrutiny, even as she brushes her fingers over their face, learning by contour. Deudalaphon, with a merry laugh and fine lines around the eyes that shows she does so often.

Three of these people opposed them. But it's so hard to dwell on that, sharing so intimate a sight with one another. Most likely that's the point.

Emet-Selch comes to them last; they can't help but feel their back stiffen at his approach. Whether he meant it for true, or was just playing a role, his opposition still stings. Even so, the spirit of the rite is still with them: his mouth, his chin, his cheeks, they already know, so too is his soft white hair no new sight. Beneath his mask, though: yes, that quirk to his eyes that matches with the way he frowns when he concentrates, an answer to a question from days of studying the classics together. He rests his forehead against theirs, closing his eyes tightly in that way of his. "You're strong. You'll do well," he says as Emet-Selch, his breath warm on their bare face. But it is Hades who says, softer still, "Congratulations, my friend. I'm proud of you."

He squeezes their hands and withdraws, replacing his mask.

Then does Lahabrea return, bearing a midnight-dark mask in one hand and a fiery crystal in the other. He does not fit the mask to Chrysanthe's face; rather he places it in their hand. They take the cue for what it is and raise it themself, securing it carefully. Only then does he press the crystal into their hand; the voices of memories dance in their soul. Advice, admonishments, anecdotes; all vie for their attention. They but take a moment to absorb the gravity of the honour. Plenty of time ahead to learn all of what their forebears left for them. Here is for the now.

They open their eyes and gaze upward. At Lahabrea's nod, they raise their cowl, and withdraw their head into the depths of their hood.

Lahabrea takes their hand and raises it; they stand to follow the motion. "Rise and take your place among the Convocation," he says, bidding them turn to regard all of their new colleagues. 

Only as Lahabrea lets go does Chrysanthe notice the empty seat in the circle. Shoulders thrown back, they stride toward it. Before they sit, they face the assembly. "Then let it be my honour and my privilege to stand amongst you all. Let it be with knowledge and with grace that I do serve as Azem, the Shepherd."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Lahabrea kisses the WoL before Emet-Selch ever does, in my WoL/Emet-Selch fanfic. I'm not sorry, but I'm also not sure what to do with this information???


	8. Xenoglossy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She cannot stop crying.

Everyone is so _nice_ here. Probably it's her fragile state right now but she outright bursts into white-hot tears when one of them offers her a piece of candy. They seem unconcerned by the pestilence that trickles down her cheeks, moved solely by her sheer distress. They kneel to ask if she needs help finding her parents.

Unfortunate hiccups a lie about having arranged a spot to meet her mother if she got lost. This satisfies the masked giant enough to let her go.

The candy tastes like saltwater, smells like a berry-bush in winter, but she sucks it anyway, rattling it around her teeth desperately. Bless the others for realizing she needs to be alone right now. Y'shtola at least suspected a risk was being taken in letting her wander the streets alone, if no one else.

If only she dared tell anyone why there is no risk: the simple reason Unfortunate why does not wish to die. But they all seemed unwilling to even seriously entertain the notion that Hydaelyn could be a primal. To hear that Unfortunate is tempered by her would be a step too far, she thinks.

Easy for Ardbert to advise her against choices that isolate herself. Not nearly so easy to do. She _loves_ her friends, but how to act on that? Or to tear down the barriers she feels between them? She's never gotten on well with Thancred, ever since they met in Ul'dah, and while they've had their ups and downs, he's not exactly endeared himself lately. Urianger _lies._ Maybe he has what he considers good reasons for it, but she _can't_ trust him after everything.

Alisaie is lovely, a joy to spend time with; someone she can be free and enjoy herself around. But Unfortunate doesn't know how to share her fears with someone who looks at her like she hung the stars with her own two hands.

Y'shtola is such a mystery to her; they barely know each other, really. It always feels like she's being judged by the miqo'te, and found wanting. She can do that to herself, thank you very much.

Alphinaud... the day she forgives Alphinaud for the Crystal Braves will be the day he forgives himself. That is, never. It's gotten easier to be around him; she can call him a friend now and not feel like she's lying. But...

Twelve, but she misses Aymeric. Will he even know when she dies, here a thousand yalms beneath the sea, in a world not her own? She's almost glad that he won't, that he will never see her name on the bottom of yet another list of casualties. But without that, he will never lose hope, and she cannot bear to do that to him.

Perhaps Feo Ul will carry word to him, when all is said and done. That would be nice.

She walks through this garden of antiquity, willing her heart not to break. Unfortunate cries again, staring up at the beauty of a tree. Her tears sizzle as they hit the ground.

Another passersby stops when they see her, gulping desperately for air, trying to calm herself. This time she says her mother has tasked her with getting a message to Emet-Selch. The robed being reads her tears as being borne from frustration at being unable to secure a meeting. They gently pet her hair until the tears stop coming and offer directions to places where she might find someone else who can help her with her mother's errand. She won't be too upset if Unfortunate just does her best, after all.

When was the last time she even thought about her mother, let alone saw her? Does she even know what became of the daughter she never wanted? There are only so many people in the world who might be called Unfortunate Incident. Her departure for Ul'dah seems so very long ago.

She keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop with these people here. For one to suddenly try and do something like eat her face. But it has yet to come; the worst of it seems to be a bizarre enshrinement to _debating_ one another, as if that's somehow going to be a tool for anything other than working out the most insufferable person in the room.

Unfortunate can almost see the merit in it, as she watches two of the inhabitants carry out an example for her benefit. The opinion she offers when asked is ill-informed, fueled solely by her inability to know of suffering and leave it be, but even so both praise her, and that fills her with an uncomfortable amount of joy.

She lingers here, eavesdropping on conversations, trying to put together how this even _works,_ without finding an answer for herself. It feels brutally self-indulgent to waste the time on.

But Emet-Selch had been right. She does like it here.

She pokes buttons on the lift in the back of the room. She's not sure what to expect, or precisely how it works. It seems a little like the Garlean devices she's encountered, in the same way that a child's wind-up mammet resembles Omega.

After an achingly long time, the doors open. More buttons for her to press inside. She reaches up with her staff to jab the highest one she can, halfway to the top of the cluster.

Its motion is unlike that of the lift that took her into the city: this one is jerky, unsteady. It lets her off in the middle of a hallway that gives the lie to the notion that grey is a drab thing. The carpets are marked with a subtle swirl, and the walls have a faint sparkle embedded into them, unobtrusive in the soft overhead light.

She wanders the floor, peering into things that can only be offices; desks covered with papers, mugs with half-ilms remaining of ice-cold coffee (it too, tastes like nothing other than the sea), trash baskets filled to the brim. Unfortunate stops at a desk poised in front of another door; something of this one puts her in mind of Tataru's throne in the Rising Stones. She lifts the paperwork, tries to make sense of the characters, but none of them hold any meaning to her.

She makes noises under her breath as looks the papers over, testing sounds, trying to see if some character or another is more common than any else, but she can scarcely tell where one ends and another begins. Even ancient Allagan was easier, and her understanding there is only of the crudest sort: a few words to navigate panels, transliterations, obvious danger warnings. This might as well be scribbles on a page.

Instead she tests the door behind the desk; it moves almost reluctantly, a shuddering thing made in fits and starts. She gets it far enough open to squeeze through.

The room on the other side is utterly empty; the floor is bare, showing the strange stone tile. No furniture, not even any lights; the sole illumination is through the windows offering a majestic view of the city spreading out above and below.

Every single light-blasted hair on her body stands on end; her back goes rigid, and she rocks onto the balls of her feet. The sense of danger is overpowering; she instinctively reaches for aether through Shatotto's gem. Her eyes dart around the empty room, finding nothing, seeing nothing. She even checks out the windows; nothing clinging to the side of the building.

Though her skin still prickles, she forces herself to greater ease. Best to stay alert, but there is nothing here. Nothing at all.

Bile surges up her throat; she cannot hold the sudden spurt of it back. She spits the vile acid out. The wetness stands out starkly, a cruel white taint on the once-flawless floor. She gropes for her water bottle to rinse her mouth with and stumbles out of the room; all at once the feeling of wrongness eases.

The lift carries her to the ground much more fluidly than it did bringing her up.

* * *

The crystal is warm in her palm. "And how do I...?"

The clerk's gentle confusion threatens to undo her. "Little one, are you certain you... surely you must instinctively know how..."

Unfortunate's newfound proclivity for weeping aids her here. She shakes her head, cheeks burning in the wake of tears. The lie comes easily. "My parents thought if I had a look at a proper--" what was the word? "--creation matrix, perhaps..." She shuts her eyes; it feels like burning. "We came to the city to try and get help for me, but it seems like..."

"Oh dear." The clerk leans up and over their desk, and gently wipes Unfortunate's face with the sleeve of their robe. If they notice the white streaks left behind, they say nothing. "Take all the time you need, little one. We have no seats for you, but the Angle is nearby; I often go there to relax on the grass. Or you are welcome to remain in here, of course."

"Thank you." Unfortunate takes a few deep breaths. Her voice is sore. "Maybe some fresh air will help."

She takes the crystal with her, clutching it with a sweaty hand (even her sweat now leaves a sickly white residue) and makes her way to the Aetheryte plaza. The promised grass is so soft as she settles down into it, tucking her legs up beside her. She wipes the crystal clean on the grass and turns it around and around, looking it over. Lightning-aspected, but nothing else immediately obvious about it.

Her creative potential is too weak... surely the clerk must have meant her aether reserves. It makes sense, she supposes, that these ancients would have capacities for such far beyond any modern being, even one like her, blessed with power as she is. The crystal should have enough to fuel the creation of these ludicrous robes, however. She just needs to work out how to get at it, and how to actually even perceive this matrix that should give the robes form.

What she wouldn't give for Y'shtola's ability to see the flows of aether directly. Mind, she didn't seem able to do that before she went _blind_, and it's probably _killing_ her, but, eh. Can't make omelettes without breaking a few eggs. She feels blind herself, groping at the crystal with her own aetherial senses. Like brushing a mountain with a blade of grass to try to get a feel for the caves inside.

She feels so stifled with what power she has available to her. Perhaps she could see better with-- ah. She doesn't need to limit herself to her own aether, does she?

Unfortunate makes the practiced move to open herself to aether through the filter of Shatotto's gem. Lightning isn't so perfectly resonant with it as fire or ice, but the soul crystal can process it with relative ease. Almost instinctively, she weaves threads of aether into ley lines; since she has no intention of doing battle she takes the extra few moments to hook them to the natural localized aether, stabilizing the flow. At least for as long as she'll need, anyway.

Centred and tapped into her web of power, she has a much easier time perceiving the intricate knot of aether in the crystal. She still cannot _see_ it, but she does not need to see to know it is there.

It should be instinctive. To one of these people, anyway. She traces aetherial outline, tries to see what she knows is there. Or is it? Perhaps this simulacrum can only give to her an imitation of the real thing. She draws in more aether, filtering it through the Mhachi gem and probes at the design. Ah, but there's so much there, intricately folded in on itself, so much information packed into so tight a space. And she'd thought tomestones a marvel once--

Her magic is not given to subtlety, but she does her best to ease it around the crystal, probing into the lines of its aether. Her thoughts _shift_, moving into the language of fallen Mhach. The terms to articulate what she perceives flow more easily, concepts all the same but neat little brickwork now, words of a people who used them often. Her clumsy aetherial fingers unpick the knot slowly that she might know what lies within.

More. Deeper. The polyglottic trance hits her, and what she is aware of in the crystal is beyond even the limits of Mhachi. She falls into analytic Allagan, and she realizes now with this crystal in hand she perceives the very expression of genesis of which Unukalhai once spoke.

Ah, and these are the robes worn by the people of Amaurot. Custom and not law, here is where the seams fall, this is how thick the fabric should be, here is how it feels against the skin, this is the joy in equality (not sameness), the pockets are _here_ and _here_ and--

It threatens to overwhelm her, but it is still not enough. Allagan isn't enough, she must go further still. She strains her senses, her reach, tugging at her aetherial lines as sweat beads down her forehead.

The weight of it on the shoulders, the faint, pleasant scent almost neutral to the nose, this is the kindness of the Amaurotines who do not know her but care all the same, this is the feel of the robe wiping tears from her cheeks, the gentle concern but no thought of danger for one perceived as a child wandering alone.

Her tongue moves in the shapes of syllables; her throat croaks out words she does not know, an intricate winding gabble of impenetrable phrases, and she nearly feels weight growing in her arms. The words come with greater intensity, but there is something wrong with them, she does not know these words and they are meaningless and they are coming out wrong and crippling nausea breaks her trance. Unfortunate doubles over where she sits, clutching her stomach, eyes shut tight against the light she bleeds out of her skin. The next surge of nausea brings up sick white blood; she knows it by the taste, copper and not acid.

Her ley lines collapse as she spews between them, blood and water and unadulterated light that clings to the grass, withering it.

Not long left now.


	9. Inferno and Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was only one way this could end.

The truth, the real truth of the matter, is that Unfortunate Incident is a coward. Not in the normal way; she doesn't shirk from battle, or hard work, or even from doing stupid odd jobs to get people to like her. She, enlightened and empowered by Hydaelyn with resolve and endurance beyond all normal mortal capacities, called upon to give aid to those who need it, to save individuals and nations and now worlds, has always had a choice open to her. A choice where she has always taken the coward's option.

She is the greatest mage to walk the Source since the days of Mhach. But she has _always_ been a destroyer, ever since her talent and interest for thaumaturgy became clear as a child. She, chosen to give succor to all things, calls ruination upon her foes, reduces them to ash. In the heat of battle she is a raging goddess of fire and flesh, merciless and unrelenting. So too is she a swordswoman of little talent but some skill, her rage and fear and desperate, terrifying love for all things driving her to this revelation: _if someone is to be hurt, it had might as well be me_. She will take the pains of others onto her own body, making a shield of self and sword.

A defender, a destroyer: a giver of pain and a receiver thereof. A choice she has made, all too consciously.

For she has never once sought to heal the wounds of another, body or soul. Oh, she's changed dressings. Bandaged cuts. Held thread for chirurgeons at times, even. Never once has she turned her prodigous aetheric gifts to conjury, or arcanima, or astrology. Not even to tend her own hurts, and certainly that would only be to her benefit if she did.

She has no illusions that it's possible to save everyone. At this point, with light burning in her veins and in her mouth and eyes, she has lost any hope that she can even save herself. Regardless: she could choose, any day of her life, to _ease the pain of others_. And she refuses. Every single day of her life.

Because that is one responsibility she cannot bear. To have that power and be forced to choose when and where to use it. So she permits suffering to continue. Allows pain to flourish when she is done her violent work. It is selfish, and it is cowardly, and for all that she's made some level of peace with herself over that, she also cannot ever forgive herself for that choice.

Regardless: it is a choice she has made in full awareness of the ramifications, if not at first then certainly now. She does not shy from the dreadful truth this says about herself.

Plain and simple: she is a coward, and it is this cowardice that defines her very soul.

Thus it is with a measure of authority in her heart that, when Emet-Selch speaks of judgement, and worthiness, and the value of souls, Unfortunate concludes this: Emet-Selch is a coward. This, and that for all his millenia of existence, the man is a _fucking_ child.

He who names himself the steward of so many souls who gave up their very _beings_ to save others, and he so flippantly vows to murder millions to restore them. Unfortunate cannot, will not speak for the lives and desires of those so long gone-- but neither can _he_. And he can't bring himself to confront that, can he? And, yes, murder: to claim otherwise is sheer sophistry. He knows it. She knows he knows it. But those are words one never says to oneself, is it?

Coward. He's hiding from the true monstrosity of what he's doing. Child. He's doing it all for _himself_, with no thought to the souls he claims to love.

Unfortunate doesn't watch him go. Arms folded across her chest, she frowns to herself. And what would a being created by, fueled with the souls of myriad martyrs _be like_? What would it-- He feel? A will born out of desperate despair to clutch all that is loved close to the chest, to preserve everything held dear?

What would it feel like to have that will be your own?

... and how would it feel to be born from those who were left _behind_?

Unfortunate snaps out of her reverie and unfolds her arms only to slam her fist into her palm. "That rat-bastard," she growls. "That dramatic _asshole_."

A cough behind her, shy despite it being the sound bold enough to try to reach her. Ryne. "Unfortunate? Are you, um... well, I guess you're not all right. How are you feeling? We can wait if you need time."

"Better than I have since before Vauthry," Unfortunate says, blinking when she realizes that's the truth. Surprising her even further is the plaintive grumble that arises from her stomach. She pulls off her spectacles and rubs white residue from them with a handkerchief. "Menphina's ass, I can't even march heroically into the burning memory of the greatest civilization that is, was, and ever will be without something getting in the way. I _hope_ I'm not the only one who's hungry because I'm going to feel like a right tit if I'm the only one cramming sandwiches into my mouth before we go."

"There's our girl!" Thancred laughs, and it doesn't even sound forced. Tense shoulders around the room begin to ease. He comes up to clap her on the arm and start going through the baggage. "I'll have one with you. It's no good fighting on an empty stomach, and perhaps it's all that fire, but I suspect whatever Emet-Selch has planned for us is a little less idyllic than what we've seen so far. Ryne, you'd better have something, too."

They make a little circle on the floor, all of them, passing around sandwiches and little stacks of cookies wrapped tightly to prevent them from turning to powder in bags. Unfortunate rolls her shoulders, stretches her arms, takes in the sudden ease that's come over the group. Urianger even heats some water and makes a little pot of tea. She accepts an offered cup, with a tiny dollop of honey squeezed from a glassine bag. Unfortunate closes her eyes, taking in the campfire scent of smoky tea, and finds that she's smiling.

Whatever comes of this, it will not be her death, nor will it be the release that the traitor part of her craves. The light in her has its own purpose to serve, recalcitrant as it is. The release will not consume her. Her purpose will not permit it. Her purpose-- and Emet-Selch's, in contacting her, though he could voice it not. Likely not even think it. But he's a _clever_ man, even if he is a coward and a child, and he knows what he's doing. So, she just needs to plan what to do, and trust that her soul isn't going to collapse in on itself from the strain of the process.

Easy.

* * *

Unfortunate leaves the others to clean up, begging a need to take a moment to herself. She steps outside the Capitol building, rummaging through her pockets to come up with a small, near-black crystal.

She didn't really need to bring this with her. She didn't bring her sword, let alone any armour tougher than magically-reinforced leather. But it doesn't feel right being parted from it for too long. And perhaps she does have a purpose for it, even when she does not actively walk its path.

The crystal is thick with connection to the astral; now's not the time to spend her focus on digging deep into it, the struggle to perceive the aetherial intricacies it contains. She already knows it has power. She already knows it has the aspecting she needs.

It shudders in her hand as she gently draws her thumb over it; the sensation mirrors down her spine. She leans against the wall, facing it, crystal pressed by her palm to her forehead. "All right," she says, softly but aloud. "I don't like you, and you don't like me. No. No lies. Let's start over: I don't like looking in this mirror. It hurts, even if I don't regret what I see. But let's have an accord, you and I. It is as Shatotto's heir that I walk into battle this day, but I have a place for you in that."

Silence. A relief, in its way: the aether she'd expend in realizing the soul crystal's manifestations is more than would be wise, here and now. She needs all her strength to bring to bear in the upcoming battles. And she has another goal in mind for this precious little stone she pulled from a corpse in a gutter.

"No lies to you, my loves," she repeats to the inanimate chunk of crystal. "I'm not going to promise to save everyone. Nor even _any_one. Least of all myself. But be my abyss while I burn, and I swear to you this: we're going to _try_."

She squeezes the crystal, warm in her hand. Rather than return it to her pocket, she opens her coat, then shirt, pulling up the pouch where she keeps Shatotto's gem. Beside it she drops the dark soul gem. What she hears is not the click of stones: they _chime_ as they contact each other, harmonic notes paired, a resonance she feels in her body when she lets the pouch fall once more against her heart.

Unfortunate only hopes it isn't too late.

* * *

Aether is thick as ash in the air here. Out in the stable illusion of the city, the webs that formed the glamours were precision-placed, self-sustaining nets that were no easier to tap into than natural aetherflow. Here, the construction is hasty, not quite slapdash, but not nearly so smooth. Easy to grasp, easy to connect. Her aetherial tethers are thick conduits of power: incoming, via the gem of Shatotto, regulating the depth of flow to amounts she can sustain. Outgoing, via her staff: pumping power at the speed of thought, shaped to destroy the horrors crawling the city streets.

She dances, bouyed by currents of aether, a glory of power. She does not save a single one of the precious robed figures that she sees, but it does not strike at her heart, not now in the midst of this euphoria: these wisps have even less substance than those outside, called forth to illustrate a cruel point.

She's spent so much time agonizing on that particular point that it wouldn't much matter anyway.

The Dooms of Amaurot do not break her, nor her companions.

Instead, Emet-Selch does, one by one.

Unfortunate's calm confidence and faith in herself evaporate as the light churns inside of her. Perhaps the exertion of getting here, perhaps Emet-Selch's arcane blow against all of them, perhaps the fading of the ecstasy of combat-- but here, in this vision of the end of all things, she can scarcely even see it, so light-blasted are her eyes.

Around her Alisaie, and Alphinaud, and Urianger, and Y'shtola fall: she does not know if they are alive or dead. She knows, dimly, that she is still standing. And that she is still Unfortunate Incident, still herself. More or less.

And all at once, she cannot even be certain of that anymore. She does not bleed light: it lances out of her. Her body convulses as it drives her to her knees. Someone else hears Emet-Selch's glee. She, all of her, feels nothing but her own pain.

Then Thancred falls, and Ryne too, before she can do a blessed thing to hold back the tide of light surging inside of her. White blood spurts out of her throat, splashing on the ground, her skin and soul splitting and giving off light, light, light, nothing but light.

* * *

She sobs against the infinity of a place where there is no pain. Not from the light, not from her wounds, accrued in the city or long before. Scars that have stretched her skin tight for years are gone, and she feels almost... whole.

For a moment she hopes she is dead. But if she were dead, she would have it in her to get up, she thinks. That is beyond her.

But she is not alone, here in this place of nothing and everything. Beside her: Ardbert. A clarity to him she hasn't seen since the Source.

He refuses to look at her. "If you had the strength to take another step, could you do it? Could you save our worlds?"

Unfortunate shuts her eyes tight, and she breathes deeply, searching for focus. Perhaps she is indeed dead. But need that stop her? In this moment? Against her chest, she feels the chill of two crystals, even through the layer of soft leather that contains them. "That, and so much more."

Ardbert laughs, one final time, and holds out his axe to her. Their eyes meet. "Then take it. We fight as one."

Perhaps half the would would not sacrifice itself for the other half, not anymore. But she does not need half the world. Her lips move in silent thanks as Ardbert _fades_. She loves him, in this moment, his morose moods and sweet nostalgia, his all-too-familiar stories of adventures so long gone that now only she lives to remember them. Her hand on the great-axe, she rises.

He speaks his final words through her lips, and settles into her, a crystalline sensation, shards of a shattered glass pressed together and melding as if they had never been broken.

Eight times Rejoined.

She does not burn in the light.

They-- She does not know what it is Emet-Selch sees when she rises. But it unsettles him. Swiftly does he declare her a broken husk, unconvinced though he sounds. But he still outmatches her, they both know that.

From far behind him, blessed G'raha rises. He is battered, beyond more than what a gunshot would do-- _what happened?_ She finds herself wondering, but the Exarch declares his unwillingness to leave things half-finished. He calls out-- the incantation that drew her here in the first place.

Unfortunate barely hears Emet-Selch's frustration as purest power blossoms into her. From beyond all rifts, she is born. And this will not last, this precious gift granted her. But here and now, it is hers and hers alone to bring to bear.

G'raha Tia _runs_ past them both, exhaustion writ plain on his face, not stopping him. He tugs her fallen friends away from them both, one by one back and clear from what will inevitably be a battle.

She has precisely one chance. "I did not come here with the intent to live," she says softly, but she knows that her voice carries to him. "Yet in this moment, I find that I am not quite ready to die. You understand, I know. We are far too alike, you and I." She bends, taking up her fallen staff; she holds it at ease beside her. "Come, Emet-Selch. Let us see which one of us is free to rest at the end of this day."

Emet-Selch must maintain the semblance of control of the situation. She permits him this. "Very well. Let us proceed to your final judgment. The victor shall write the tale, and the vanquished become its villain!" He pads closer to her: a hunting-cat, poised to pounce. "But come! Let us cast aside titles and pretense, and reveal our true faces to one another! I am Hades! He who shall awaken our brethern from their dark slumber!"

Wreathed in power, his form begins to swell and change. Despite herself, Unfortunate gasps, for he is majestic. Crowned and clawed, robed and regal. She feels for the first time in her life tiny, standing before him. In one vast claw he holds a staff of violet crystal, and she has seen its like before, a lifetime ago, when once she rescued Minfilia, the true Minfilia... If there are tears in her eyes now, it is because he is beautiful.

But beauty will not stop her. Aether dances on her skin. She can feel it now, so easily. It is everywhere, pouring from him and from her, _through_ them both, streaming, radiant. Her methods she does not change: she ties into fire, she ties into ice, reaching through the glorious crystal that has endured through milennia to come to her. But she is not finished her preparations: there is a blacker magic yet for her to command. The crystal nestled beside the first thrums with her heartbeat, and through it she aligns her energies to the astral, synchronizing herself to the aetherflows here. Part of her wants to laugh: laugh at being so bold to channel her opponent's own nature, and for turning this warrior's stone to pure magecraft. But through it she will wield love, and protect those most in need of it. She ties to the focusing-crystal in her staff easily, then whirls stabilizing threads all around her like a cloak, prepared to be connected into ley lines at a moment's thought.

"My world will have no need for villains," says Unfortunate, looking up at him through thick spectacles. "But there may yet be a place in it for you, Hades. There are tasks yet for both of us to perform. Though it be as well the cry left in my wake, I am Unfortunate Incident, and I would seize no other name." She lets herself fall backwards, half a fulm, and a net of aether catches her. "Come on. Let's dance."

She thrusts her left hand skyward, wrist snapping straight. She seizes aether within it and forms a dart; she casts it at Hades, only for him to bat it trivially aside. "Pathetic. You think you can face me? With your crippled knowledge of the arcane, half an understanding of anything you touch...!"

"What can I say?" She laughs, flows of aether yanking her out of the way of his counter-blow, the dart she sent at him multiplied a hundredfold. "I'm an intuitive practitioner. I understand more than you credit me for." White-hot plasma assaults Hades, bursting at his greater arms and lesser, assaulting staff and claws and chest with burning force. Her fist _clenches_ and then all at once the burning fluid _shatters_, exploding millions of frozen shards everywhere but back at herself.

Purest darkness bursts around her, tearing at her coat. "Little fool!" His voice is everywhere. "With your hollow, worthless soul you cannot even hope to scratch the surface! The arcane is _mine_ to command! You nibble crumbs and call it a feast!" The assault redoubles; astral power shields her more effectively, though her back foot stumbles.

Her staff spins above her, one-handed. She calls a symphony of fire down on Hades, burning a myriad of shades, bathing her in the astral light. None of what she works is in any spellbook; the floods of aether cascading through her would crisp any _normal_ mortal to ash on the spot, crystals for aid or no. But she is not normal, and she has more within her reach yet. "Worth," she spits, flames crackling fiercely at the word. "You sound like a Syndicate bean-counter. I reject your very premise! _I_ will not cry out to you of the worths of our sundered little lives, the values of our souls, the meanings of our existence!"

Violet energies spear right through her; she barely feels it, though her aether trembles from the force of it. She can elide that pain. A flash of intuition strikes her, and she dives to the side, narrowly avoiding the ground itself bursting up to try to seize her. She's making him work for this; his motions are sharper now, less careless.

Unfortunate thrusts her palm toward Hades: the air implodes around him, within him. She feels sweat on her forehead as she calls, "My life is worthless! My soul, valueless! My existence, utterly devoid of meaning!" Astral energies flood her; she coils them around the umbral chill. "And I am no less filled with Her love for that fact! For the moment you abstract the weight of a soul, you are _lost!_ Let it all be valued as _one!_ No life higher than any other! An ancient or an infant! A soul or a structure! Be it one part or a thousand, the worth of a soul _does not divide_! It is one, one, one! I will not be _diminished!_"

"Universal, unconditional love? Pah!" Hades raises his greater arms, his assaults relenting as he draws in power; an arcane wind ruffles Unfortunate's blasted-white hair from the force of it. "'Tis madness! More weight than any one being could bear, if they meant it in truth-- and I assure you, my dear, naive fool, that no one _really_ does."

She hammers at him with raw power, clumsy, flailing, but the force of her admixture is enough to force him back half a step. "Every pain a wound," she hisses. "Every death a scar. Every life a love. No matter what it be, no matter the cost! None held above one another! Too much for one person to bear? Yes! But love when shared grows! I think you knew this once-- I have walked in the streets of your memories, and I know what I saw!"

Shadows gather in on Hades, bursting darkness at her. She does not even bother to get out of the way of it, lets it pierce a myriad of holes in the light that suffuses her. "And what else have you _seen_, mortal mage? Betrayal! War! Rapes and rampages, conflicts from within and without all at once! Where is your love for that? Wasted! Think you that such creatures would ever _consider_ such love for another? For those whom they hate, for those whom they would destroy?"

Round a core of a lance of ice, Unfortunate begins gathering power of her own, fire and darkness rampaging around it, building rapidly. "For love's sake would I oppose such things. But come now, do not think me a fool, blinded to your sophistry. You weave your own self-fulfilling prophecy, o Architect of empires. It is not by _Hydaelyn's_ hand that a world has been forged that you cannot love: it is your own!" More, more, she floods more into it, the heat of it affecting even her, the ends of her hair blackening and crisping away. "Lie to yourself, Hades. But you cannot lie to me, for I _see_ you."

She casts the lance at him, guiding it with all her force, blasting it through his attempt to fend it off. She strikes true; he stumbles. But it's too much for the crystal set into her staff can bear, shaped by mortal hands, for mortal needs. It shatters, peppering her with a spray of glassy needles. They embed into her coat, some piercing through to flesh, they strike her neck, her face. Her eyes are safe by virtue of her spectacles, but even there now chips distort her sight through the glass.

Hades regathers himself from her blow, and takes advantage of her own stumble: he looses the power he too had been gathering, a blinding burst of inky power that drives her back. Only currents of aether keep her from falling, her body wracked by pain from the blow. It clings to her vision, clouding it even more than the blurring of her chipped spectacles. She lets herself fall to one knee, panting, staff useless on the ground beside her.

She doesn't need it. Unfortunate stands, power crackling between her fingertips, blood trickling down her cheeks. Her breath is coming hard but steady, and her hold on the aether does not waver.

"Impressive resilience..." says Hades, raising his staff high. "But it matters little. I have all eternity to break your stubborn will!" He drives the sharp end into his own chest, shards flying everywhere. She does not escape these either, violet prickles thrusting into her armoured coat and embedding into her skin. They assault her face, catch in her hair; the distance at least keeps them from damaging her spectacles further.

But this is not an assault on her, no. Darkness spills out of Hades' gargantuan form like blood, pooling into a starless night by their feet. The remainder of the staff shatters as he crushes it in his grip. "I am stifled by this vessel of flesh..." And so he sheds it, body arching back, convulsing, violet darkness pouring from this self-inflicted wound. Nothingness swallows Unfortunate: but still she can hear, and it is not to her that he speaks. "Unburden your sleeping souls, my brethren... _I_ shall bear every hope, every dream, every prayer!"

Unfortunate turns toward the new source of his voice, and steps toward it in this darkness. A smile brushes her lips, one that drags a tear loose from her eye. This time it is not a curse when she says, softly, "I see you, Hades. It was always going to come to this. We are too much the same, you and I."

Darkness clears, and she sees him with her eyes too, not just her soul. And if before she had wept at his beauty, now she cries for true, tears washing blood from her face, leaving behind agonies of salt. For he is glorious, bouyed by wings studded with the crystalline remains of his staff, sheltering a myriad of masks, every face a name, every name a sorrow. He hovers above her now, dwarfing even his previous form. Even but one of his claws could crush his old self in his grip. "Behold, a sorcerer of eld! Tremble before my glory!"

And she does, struggling to take in his vastness, the weight of his sorrows, her sorrows, the ever-bleeding wounds of loneliness. It is someone else's pain that thrusts at her as keenly as her own should, but never truly has. But a pain so familiar... Ties to aether draw her up, her toes an ilm above the ground. "Let's see what a modern magus might yet do."

He takes the first move, a swift, expedient burst of pure midnight assailing her. It knocks her back in the air but not off-balance, evoking a pain that assails her from within. Mere pain will never stop her. She splays her fingers wide, a net of ice weaving and growing between them. She spins, hurls it at Hades; it expands further in the air, darkness hooking into the threads and turning them to ropes, flowing wider and wider, exploding where it hits him.

Burning darkness launches back at her in turn, and she dares a desperate move. She throws wide her connections through her crystals and _catches_ it, letting it blaze through her not as a physical assault but taking it full into her own aether. Foolish, so much, too much, but-- ah, how could she not see it? Her own soul hastily patched with light and power from beyond all rifts, but the cracks still there, and when that power leaves her, so too will those be.

She laughs. But she can _use_ this abyss that assails her, and the rising surge within is almost gleeful. Unfortunate cedes control of her own body, lets arms move of their own accord, whirling fire as her shield, aether yanking her about with nimbleness her feet cannot hope to match. Swordless, that knight of her own self cannot truly take an offensive, but buy time? That, she can do.

The mage within weaves captured darkness not into net but into tapestry, dense and beautiful, a story of love and pain and past and future writ pure upon it. With threads of her own soul's light she sews darkness into her soul, reinforcing joins with hope and sorrow, disaffection and desperation. Eightfold patterns wrapped around a ninth blinding core, midnight zigzagging now through all of her cracks. An incomplete pattern, but one with room for connection, for growth, for stories yet to come. Not healed, for there are wounds that may never be, but stronger now for every stitch; if her soul should fail her again, it will never be on these lines.

Unfortunate returns to awareness of her body; the other-self withdraws, leaving her filled with only love. Hades swipes at her, with one vast clawed arm; she jerks beneath the blow. Her soul billows around the aether she draws, and she blasts the darkness she draws straight _through_ itat him. He rocks back in the air, then suddenly scythes all his claws around her, holding her tight in a grip of aether so thick she can scarce breathe.

With ice, the umbral, does she wreath herself, points and shards flying out everywhere. His grasp breaks and she drops lightly to the floor, all three hundred ponze of her, currents of aether easing the drop.

And falling back into herself, the power flows ever more easily, aether responding to her whim, not even her commands. She sings as she whirls, evading his power and catching it on her bleeding chest and launching blow after counter-blow back at him, ice tunnelling fire, darkness worked to a razor's edge. He is more powerful than she, that much is clear, but that much they both knew going into it. Millenia of refinement against her clumsy reaching for anything she can throw, but: there is this depth to her that has always known how to do this. There is the voice within her that sings with power, guiding elegant daggers of fire, scribing all the languages of the world in lightning that she calls down upon him.

He falters, just a little bit, as her voice raises up so. A tremor in the scythes of darkness that whip at her. So it is with the anguish of aeons that he brings true force to bear upon her, darkness coiling so tight around her that she can barely breathe, severing her ties to external aether.

So caught in the ecstasy of battle she is already reaching for power only to find she _cannot_, her song stilling in a silence now absolute. It is Hades' anguish, Hades' despair that curls around her, threatens to end her forever.

She falters, as Hades calls upon Zodiark's name and power to do away with her feeble mortal flesh, isolated, alone, bereft of her borrowed aether.

But she doesn't need to draw on external aether, does she? This, it is for this that all the light in Norvrandt resides in her. She needs no filter, no crystal, to use that which she has claimed for herself. She need not _surrender_ to it, it is _hers_, there and waiting for her to use.

Light glories in her, bursting from her flesh, purging itself free. Her hands spread wide, she channels it at him, her radiance meeting his own midnight.

"That Light split the world, and every life upon it!" he cries at her, wings drawing closer, bringing with it his bottomless pain. It lashes at her, desperate to snuff her.

Unfortunate shuts her eyes; she still sees the light most clearly. Her throat opens, and words spill out. She does not know them, but her eyes flood with tears just for the speaking of it.

Hades' desperation only heightens, wings yanking her forward, closer to him. "Our tragedy must never again come to pass!" There is something so protective in the gesture, but for the power he brings to bear, overwhelming and murderous.

"No," says Unfortunate, the word so natural, more natural than Eorzean or any other language she has ever studied even a single word of. "I will not permit it to."

All of the light within her, she raises as a single weapon. He is open and overwhelmed and anguished, and she has it within her to grant him the reprieve he so desperately desires. Has it within her to let him, for one single moment, stop.

But like her, he does not truly know how. He draws back. "Abomination! You seek to shatter my soul?" He thrashes forward, too slow, too late. "You have no power over me!"

But this is not a question of power. This is a thing that must be done. It must, and yet-- this one thing might be too much to ask of her. And so, she makes one more coward's choice. She turns to a part of herself that has been waiting for a long time. What was done while she stitched her soul was merely a warm-up. This one time, she accepts an offer long-standing. Unfortunate withdraws into herself, for this she cannot watch.

* * *

She has never before seen him stand straight. His shoulders back, free of the terrible weight he could permit no other to carry. He casts his hood back, face bathed in new light. Unfortunate blinks away tears, shakes away rainbows that refract into her vision through her spectacles. Her face still burns from the crystal slivers embedded into it. This is a sorrow she cannot escape from, cannot foist off onto her own anger at the world, at injustice. For this what she witnesses is now the beginning of a justice.

Unfortunate steps toward him, tears falling; she never quite looks at the hole she has blasted clean through him, or the axe borne of her own light. Their eyes meet, and they know each other.

"Remember... remember us..." says Emet-Selch softly. His eyes shut tight, his own escape, and then he looks back to her. "Remember... that we once lived..."

She reaches him, cups his jaw with her left hand, stroking his ephemeral cheek with her thumb. "Always," she breathes.

He smiles.

He fades against her hand. "This is not over, Emet-Selch. Hades," she says against his face. "That which is done may never be forgiven. But there remain wrongs to be righted. This burden I will shoulder for you, but I will not permit you to quit this existence without a measure of requital." She blinks back tears. "But for now, rest."

Emet-Selch dissolves, wisping from sight, but-- she finds in her hand she is clutching something. A crystal. She thrusts her arm forward, into his dispersing light. Magnetic, it draws inward, to _her_.

Where else would light go, after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy ur 23,000 word prologue, friendos


	10. Was yea ra yor hartes mea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in Amaurot, Hythlodaeus has a shit-eating grin on his lips.

A soft summer breeze drifts through the streets of Amaurot, gently stirring Chrysanthe's lightweight robes. Weights in the hem keep things more or less in place, but the cool kiss of wind on their bared forearms is pleasant. Across the park, someone plays a flute for a small group of citizens; the tune puts a smile to their lips.

They consider detouring to listen themself, but one thought for the time puts them off it. The play will be starting soon, and the last thing they want is to show up late. _They_ never managed to secure a seat, Convocation member or no, so how Hythlodaeus managed to get three is still a marvel to them. But the Bureau must give him contacts of his own; probably he knows someone who knows someone. And, Chrysanthe admits, their own work absents themself from the city so often, so maybe it's not surprising that they can't catch when tickets become available.

And maybe it would be a _little_ unethical to use their position to arrange seats at performances and whatnots.

They chuckle, turning away from the park and down a street. Ah, and there's Hades, leaning against a lamp-post, his hood back to catch a breeze through his hair. Odd that he'd be alone, though.

He looks up when they approach. "Ah, Chrysanthe-- wait, are you alone? I was told you'd be arriving with--"

Behind their mask, Chrysanthe's eyes narrow. As one, they utter the name of the culprit: "-- Hythlodaeus." Chrysanthe sighs; Hades presses a hand to the forehead of his mask.

"I should have known," Chrysanthe says. "He was _far_ too happy about this. And he's been trying to get us together for how long now?"

"Too long." Hades frowns sourly. He glances past them for a few moments, looking abstracted, then shakes his head. The frown grows into a scowl. "No response. He _absolutely_ planned this. If I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times, I don't need him to--" He cuts himself off, half-turning from them.

As if they're so undesirable. Not that they're any happier about this, either. They were ready for a pleasant night out with the three of them, not some sort of... some sort of set-up. Chrysanthe folds their arms across their chest. "We're going to have to have _words_ with him. But what do we do now? He already gave me my ticket; I assume you have yours as well. I don't really want to give him the satisfaction, but..."

The scowl calcifies across his lips. "But I do want to see this production. I've been on the waiting list for the past four years." Hades sighs. "Thus ruling out the two of us going to shove these tickets down his throat here and now. I suppose we'll simply have to endure each other's company for a few hours. But let's not make it out as though we're _enjoying_ ourselves. I'd hate to prove him right about anything." He pushes off the lamp-post, and raises his cowl, tucking back a few stray strands of hair. "Shall we be off, most esteemed Azem? We don't want to be late."

Behind their mask, Chrysanthe closes their eyes for just a moment. Then they smile to him. "By your lead, oh noble Emet-Selch."

* * *

The venue is small, intimate; maybe a little more than a dozen people able to sit and watch. This more than anything else is the cause of the difficulty gaining admission. Hades and Chrysanthe sit nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, a tiny table to hold drinks separating their knees. They've known each other long enough for it not to be uncomfortable, but it _is_ awkward when their bared elbow drags up his arm as they try to sip their drink.

Much as Chrysanthe hates to admit it, Hythlodaeus really would only be a third wheel here.

The performers set the stage of a vast and blighted land, suffering from a terrible drought. From there, they follow a boy from a tiny village, searching for a way to bring back the rain. Every day he wanders, searching for water; every day something in his home slips a little further from him.

Chrysanthe leans forward, the back of their hand resting against Hades' as they both hold onto their drinks loosely. They purse their lips, shaking their head a tiny bit when the boy returns home, only to learn his mother perished as he ranged, coming back with nothing more than a few handfuls of water to share. Hades turns his head as the boy dares further and further out, following a legend of a palace of purest ice. A sister, a friend, an elder-- they suffer with a dread fever, and the boy only redoubles his efforts to bring the rain.

The boy expends nearly all of his supplies, traveling the wasteland chasing this dream, until he finds it, standing proud and alone. The vision of the palace conjured by the stage-artists is enough to make Chrysanthe shiver in their breezy robes. Rapt as they are, they pay it no mind when Hades curls an arm around them, using his longer sleeves to banish their chill.

In the very heart of the palace is a girl of purest ice. The boy, transfixed by her misery, forgets his mission for a time and simply speaks to her, this girl who has no muscles to move. He speaks kindly and sweetly, of a time before the land was blighted, of birdsong and starlight. Then-- then, he speaks of his family, left behind on the other side of the wasteland.

So moved is the girl of ice, she weeps. Chill water falls from her form until she is melted, then the palace around her turning to water. The boy's lungs are filled with her sea, and for a moment too so are the audience's, caught in the spell. Chrysanthe's breath is tight in their throat as the boy nearly drowns: but the water evaporates in the heat of the blasted land. When the boy awakens, he laments what happened for a dream, and returns to his village. Empty-handed, he meets his last remaining sister, nearly lost to him.

As they speak, a gentle mist drifts from above; it does not dampen Chrysanthe or Hades' robes, but clings on the stage, a delicate shimmer of wetness. It is Chrysanthe who gasps as mist turns to rain, but Hades who looses a tear as the boy sets out one final time, in search of the clouds.

They go to eat afterwards, discussing metaphors, the staging, the technical aspects. Before long they branch out into other subjects; other productions they know of but haven't managed to see yet, gallery displays, even books. To Chrysanthe it feels like a long time since they've had this chance, to simply sit and chat about things they _like_ with one another. "Oh, maybe he's right," they sigh, swirling a spoon through layers of ice cream.

"Hm?"

"Hythlodaeus. Maybe we should give, I don't know, give it a try." They let the spoon drop, and tilt their head to let their cowl hide their cheeks some. How is this so awkward? They're an adult. He's an adult. Neither one of them is inarticulate. They've both _been_ in relationships. "You know. Us."

"What, and give Hythlodaeus the satisfaction?" Hades slurps at his coffee contemplatively. "I _have_ enjoyed myself. Enjoyed your company. This evening, and prior. But, surely it would be a conflict of interest of some sort..."

Chrysanthe stares at a spoonful of ice cream. "Mm. You know, I had to be Elidibus' shoulder to cry on when Igeyorhm left him. Oh, that was ages ago. But they haven't let it affect anything now. But Halmarut and Deudalaphon are together, aren't they? Or Mitron and Loghrif. We could ask one of them if there's anything special that needs to be done."

A silence grows for a moment or three, then Hades says, "Well... we don't tend to work on the same projects, nor evaluate the other's work. Mind you, if it is a problem-- any sort of violation, we'd need to cease pursuing it immediately. I value your friendship. I do not, however, value anything further we might _add_ to that friendship above the Convocation."

"We're as one on that front, then," says Chrysanthe, finishing their ice cream. "And there is one other condition-- that I think you too will agree with me on."

"What's that?"

Chrysanthe smiles devilishly. "Wherever we go from here, whatever that makes of us, it did _not_ start tonight. I refuse to cede that victory to Hythlodaeus." They extend one hand out to him.

Hades takes their hand, and brushes his lips against their fingers. Mischief alight in his eyes, he says, "Agreed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both the chapter title and the story of the play they go see are taken from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9N6o-lZMNI).


	11. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate has no desire to be a _difficult_ patient, not at all.

Oh, the chirurgeons have a field day with her. They _start_ with reaming her out for returning to the Crystarium under her own power, and when she quite mildly suggests that's a good thing, she gets the upbraiding of her life. Things like 'over-extending', and 'aetheric overload', and 'blessed dark you've got shards of crystal stuck in you everywhere' and nonsense like that.

She submits to their ministrations anyway; she's not that much a fool. She finds herself very adamantly confined to bed save for only the briefest of allowances for bodily functions. And that only with a great deal of assistance getting to and from the facilities. She considers objecting, but to be honest with herself once she's actually lying down she finds it really very difficult to get her limbs to obey any commands besides 'stay put'. Unfortunate isn't entirely certain she'd be able to walk anywhere on her own, once they actually get her settled.

She also finds it a curiously pleasant sensation when they set an apprentice on her with a pair of tweezers, beginning the lengthy process of extracting all the sharded crystal embedded in her flesh. This is probably more due to the truly heroic amount of painkillers they pour down her throat than anything else.

It does make the glittery bowl they drop the shards into _awfully_ fascinating to watch, though. It's very cruel of them not to let her touch the collection of tiny crystal needles they pull out of her. Someone ends up threatening to restrain her hand, which isn't very nice of them at all.

Still, it's a little like being pampered, isn't it? Someone washes her hair, though by the heavy gloves involved and threats to simply shave her bald suggest that it's not all that pleasant on the other side. The water glimmers with glassy needles as they pour it down the drain. No one offers to do her nails, but they do spend time trying to pull out crystal from beneath them.

Her hair is still white, she notes through the muzzy fogs of exhaustion and drugs. White, all the colour blasted out by pure light. She doesn't know why she thought it might be black again now. Maybe the new growth will be.

The spectacles cannot be saved. Blinking through them now, without the rush of adrenaline, the stress of battle keeping her alert, it's clear that they're wholly ruined: chunks gouged out of the surface and hairline cracks threatening to break them all apart. Some strange, sentimental whim seizes her; she first asks, then insists they be sent back to her rooms. She is nothing but polite; she has no desire to be a difficult patient. She does not raise her voice at anyone.

But she can barely gather the energy to lift her head from her pillow once she finally persuades them to send the glasses home, and pick up a change of clothes. And clean socks. The air in Spagyrics is so dry her feet feel like to dessicate and fall straight off her legs.

On the third day, a lensmaker from the Crystalline Mean arrives, taking odd measurements of her eyes and bidding her read from an assortment of charts. The latter is familiar enough, but the explanations of the tools he uses goes completely over her head. She knows almost all of the words involved, but they simply don't make the least bit of sense. He promises her a new pair of spectacles as swiftly as he can make them; he asks her a few questions of design that she knows would interest her, had she but the focus to remain trained on the conversation. But he seems confident he can produce something she will like, beyond just enjoying being able to see clearly.

It doesn't hurt to smile, but the strange feeling in her face suggests perhaps that it ought to. Someone comes by shortly after she tries and goes at her face some more with the tweezers. She finds herself drifting back to sleep even as they work on her.

It's so very nice to sleep and not to dream. To feel haze rise up in her mind, dragging her toward a temporary oblivion and to gently shush the part of her mind that starts to scream with panic and for danger, and know this for a _healing_, something known, expected, desired. Safe. That last is hard to force through even in her addled, receptive state, but that's not a bad thing, really.

The fourth day, she's simply directed to _rest;_ let the glues do the work of knitting her flesh back together. Some time and effort seems to have gone into slicing her chest open in countless spots just to extract some of the deeply-embedded crystal shrapnel. Unfortunate doesn't remember anyone doing that at _all_, though a vaguely-heard snatch of conversation about it being a damned miracle nothing vital got hit rattles around in her brain.

But Unfortunate still can't see a damned thing without her spectacles; and she begins to find herself tremendously _bored_. She earns a swat on her wrist when she attempts to adjust the pillows propping her into a seated position-- a danger to the glue apparently. And she finds she just _can't_ hold a book up in front of her face close enough to read, not for more than a minute or two anyway.

They allow her a visitor, at least-- a ginger blur that Unfortunate can relatively easily identify as Ryne. A little vase of flowers goes on the table beside her, and the gifted orange is swiftly removed from her hands by a nurse, shortly replaced by presumably the same orange juiced into a glass with a wide straw. As if her teeth don't work. She even holds onto the glass without spilling more than a few drops! Truly the greatest accomplishment of the vaunted Warrior of Darkness.

"I'm surprised to see you up and about," says Unfortunate, her tongue thick and sluggish in her mouth. Words feel like mush as she tries to use them. Or maybe that's just the food she's been getting. "How are you feeling? Where've they got everyone else?"

Ryne pulls up a chair. "Well, um, apparently most of the harm done to the rest of us was to our aether. So there's not a lot to do but drink some awful potions, and get some rest. We're all just staying at home, mostly. You've always been asleep when anyone's been here before. So when I came to pick up my and Thancred's potion and they told me you were _awake_, I..."

Unfortunate manages a smile. Her face stings as it stretches too far, so she pulls it back. "Awake and on the mend. Thancred's got you running errands for him? He should know better. Do you need me to talk to him for you?"

"I-- oh, no, this was my idea," Ryne says quickly. "I wanted to get some fresh air. Being cooped up in the apartments all day-- I feel so much better when I'm out in the air, don't you?"

The orange juice dribbles a little as Unfortunate sips it. Something about her lip not quite doing what she wants it to, but she doesn't have enough feeling in it to say for certain. "At times." _Sitting beneath an apple tree, embroiled in an antagonistic conversation._ "Mm. While I've got you, I'm curious-- how's my soul holding up? We were... under duress when you looked last. If it's any sort of exertion at all, just wait and look later. My soul's not going anywhere; there's no rush."

Ryne takes Unfortunate's free hand and gives her a steady look for a long few moments. "It's definitely repaired itself. When you had all the Wardens in you, it was-- it was like it was cracking all over; there were _holes_ in it. Now it's just... just blue. Maybe a little darker than before. Before it was like-- like when all the clouds go away after rain, it was like the blue in the rainbow. Now, hmm, it's more like that lake in Il Mheg, the Handmirror, and it's reflecting both down and up and it's blue both ways. If that makes sense? I don't think it's bad at all! It looks good and healthy."

Best to let that 'repaired itself' bit stand as given. No wonder it's a little darker, given how she did the work. "Well, that's a relief," Unfortunate says. "Thank you, Ryne. Please make sure everyone knows to come visit. Now, tell me, how's G-- the Exarch? He was in worse shape than the rest of you."

"He's asleep right now," says Ryne. "I'm not entirely sure what's happening with him, but he seems to be doing a little better than you. They might let him out within the next couple days? He's in the next room over. Well, the only other private room they have, anyway."

Unfortunate closes her eyes and nods, letting out a long-held breath. "Good. That's good. I'm glad he's being seen to properly. I trust them here, but he's spent so long putting people off of him. Hard not to worry." She reaches out as carefully as she can, feeling with the side of her hand to make sure something solid is beneath before putting her cup down.

All of a sudden, there's a sensation of warmth atop her chest, soft against her neck. Unfortunate opens her eyes carefully to see Ryne bent atop her, letting out a little sob. The girl's arms press against Unfortunate's sides. "I'm just--" Ryne sniffles, her face pressed into Unfortunate's pillow. "I'm so happy you're going to be all right. They promised you would be, but it's not the same as _seeing_ you, and I, I--"

Unfortunate releases a long, slow breath into Ryne's hair. "Sssh, Ryne," says Unfortunate, carefully, clumsily navigating an arm to smooth Ryne's hair. "I will be. It's going to be fine. Everything's going to be fine."

* * *

They keep her in Spagyrics for a full week. By the end, she's even eating solid food again. Not _good_ solid food, mind. Something about flavour being bad for recovery or some nonsense like that.

Not that getting released back to the Pendants means she's off of bed rest, no. _Strongly encouraged_ to stay in bed as much as possible, though she is, charitably, allowed to move to a chair at times. No more than an hour of walking per day, _supervised_, of all things, and someone staying outside her door to make sure. In addition to checking in regularly. Just in case she tries anything funny.

She's to be allowed visitors, at least? Encouraged them, even. But no _strenuous_ activity. Any sharp, stabbing, shrapnel-like pains and she's to get in touch immediately. Apparently there's no way to be sure they got all the crystal out. _Great_. Best news she's heard all month.

At least another week of that, _if_ she follows instructions to the letter. Wonderful. She gets sent home tailed by an apprentice carrying a disturbingly large box filled with potions and instructions. This one for the pain, this one to prevent infection, this one to promote her skin growing back together, this cream to reduce scarring, one for nausea (this one underlined, with a very strict schedule marked, leading her to side-eye the previous list items), this one... she doesn't know what the green one's for.

The apprentice sets everything out for her and then leaves her to the silence of her rooms. 

She stares at the collection arrayed on her table, lifting her new spectacles and rubbing the heel of her palm against her eyes. Maybe she should find a book or something. Unfortunate absolutely refuses to have the first thing she does upon arriving home be going to _sleep_. Anyway, doesn't she have things to plan? Just because her revelation about Emet-Selch's purpose came while she was half-mad with pain, aether poisoning, Lightwarden corruption, and in the middle of a city that just made her _cry_ constantly doesn't make the realization less valid.

Well. Probably it does, actually. But she won't actually know that for sure until she takes further steps, and she needs to work out how to actually make those steps happen. And the first step, well... ... well, surely if Hydaelyn had a problem with the notion, Unfortunate wouldn't be able to think of it. That's how this works, right?

There's no way that's how it works. Whatever. 

She finds her old spectacles set on her desk, clearly mangled and an ilm from falling apart. Very carefully she bends to go through her baggage from the journey, still packed, and pulls up a rumpled, lace-edged silk handkerchief.

With care and precision she wraps it around her old spectacles, using the twisted arms to secure it in place. _Bastard,_ she thinks. That absolute bastard. 

Unfortunate strips, standing nude in front of the mirror. Mouth set in a grim line, she takes stock of the damages. On her face, burns and little curved scars pockmark her, all angry and puffy and red. She touches a few, rewarding herself each time with a sharper pulse to the dull ache suffusing her. 

These should fade, if she is diligent with her salves. Most of them, anyway. 

Her neck is much the same; a little better protected but the dooms of Amaurot were all-encompassing and fire spreads. One mark from the crystal shards is disturbingly close to her jugular. Only luck could have kept it from nearly severing that blood vessel right then and there. 

Unfortunate glances back at the handkerchief. 

The wounds on her torso are more varied. Yes, bigger, larger marks all over from the crystal that hit her, and burns. But there are ugly purple bruises everywhere on her, and she has trouble identifying the causes of all of them. A perfect line of marks she knows to be from Hades' claw. Combination of glue and stitches holding those together. A few marks in grease pencil left on her skin, guidelines left behind by the chirurgeons doing the work.

Her legs... well, she can stand on them, at least. Mostly just bruising there; a few cuts that she can see. Not as big a target as her torso, she guesses.

Now, where had she left that book she'd been working on before all this? There, fallen onto the floor, half-sticking out beneath the bed. A wave of dizziness catches her halfway back up; she closes her eyes against the rising surge in her throat.

Maybe she should lie down, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Only](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20935661) fits in somewhere in here, if indeed it happened at all.


	12. Access Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate Incident gets an Alexa.

"... We've been holding on full celebrations until you're recovered enough to take part. You're looking much better now, so I'm hoping that will be soon?"

Unfortunate lets her head drop back onto her pillow, making a thoughtful noise. She shuts her eyes and takes careful stock of her physical state. A lot of the swelling down. Stitches still in place, but glues holding firm. Bruises present, but shrinking, and rotating through the myriad of colours that connote healing. "I think so," she says. "A few more days before they give me another thorough examination, but it seems promising. I always heal well. How are you managing?"

G'raha smiles faintly down at her. "I'm doing well. You don't need to trouble yourself with worry for me. It looked worse than it actually was."

"You know I don't believe that," says Unfortunate, echoing his little smile. "But it's good you're getting better. Don't push yourself too hard. An old man like you needs to take better care of himself."

"An admonition like that might carry more weight from possibly any other person in the Crystarium," says G'raha. "Did you think I wouldn't hear about your little attempts to evade your minders?"

"Hmph. I was _bored_."

"Of course you were." G'raha shakes his head and just laughs, softly. He lifts his crystalline hand, pressing a fall of hair from his eyes.

But, there's an opportunity here, isn't there? A chance to actually get some _work_ done. "Though, there might be something you can do to help with that boredom," says Unfortunate. "I've been curious about a lot of the things I've seen in my travels and I was thinking there might be something in the Tower that could satisfy that? Could you get me a tomestone or two?"

G'raha leans back in his chair thoughtfully, uncrossing and then recrossing his legs. "I'm sure I could find something or other for you. Have you improved your Allagan any? What were you looking to know about?"

She winces. "A little, but not much. I can _speak_ the language in trance just fine, but not actually understand it. Nor am I in a state to draw that deeply on aether. As for what I'm looking for..." Unfortunate rubs her cheek thoughtfully, pausing to collect her thoughts. "The containment facilities in Azys Lla come to mind, specifically how they managed to prevent the eikons held there from being a serious drain on the ambient aether. Oh, and-- when I was in Gyr Abania, I encountered a primal who resurrected her summoner's dead daughter. I say 'resurrected', but, mm, the result was somewhat of a mindless husk. Obviously the Allagans considered this a solved problem. Perhaps Amon's notes prior to attempting to reconstruct Xande? Obviously he came out wrong as well, but..."

"Ah." G'raha blinks at her several times. He rubs his palm against his forehead, ears twitching. "Technical information on primal containment and on early cloning attempts. In translation, I assume...?"

"Ideally," says Unfortunate. "Either that or something with a lot of diagrams. Their visual language is fairly clear, I've found. At least from looking over Nero's shoulder."

It takes some time for G'raha to consider her request, leaning back in the chair thoughtfully, tail swishing against the ground. "That might be easier said than done. I'm not terribly sure if I..."

About what she expected. However... "G'raha," Unfortunate says, as much honey in her voice as she can muster. "Do you remember when you drew me here, and I asked where G'raha Tia was, and you said you'd never heard the name before in your life...?"

The dear Crystal Exarch sags in his seat. "I'll see what I can do," he mumbles, then straightens. In a more normal, much firmer tone, he says, "I fear I cannot promise you, however. And you only get to use that once. I had good reasons for what I did. There was no other way to banish that corrupted aether. If Emet-Selch had ascertained my intentions... well, we know what happened when he eventually _did_."

"Saved your life," says Unfortunate softly. "In a very roundabout fashion. And do not tell me how willing you were to take it from me, nor how ready you were to die. I was no more willing or ready to see you die on my behalf than you'd tolerate me dying for yours. And that aether has been purged and released _now_, without either of us dying, so."

"Yes, well. Such was certainly not his intent." G'raha glances away from her, frowning. "It would not have been like that if he knew sooner. Nor could the means by which you did undo that corruption reasonably be anticipated. I'm certain you can understand that 'the Warrior of Light will figure something out at the last minute' is not something to hang centuries' worth of planning on. Inspiration or no."

"I suppose not indeed."

* * *

Attached to the back of the tomestone is a square of yellow paper, held in place by a slightly tacky strip. Several phrases are written on it, in a remarkably clear hand. Unfortunate turns it over, running her thumbs over the smooth blank screen.

"It runs off of a connection to the Tower's systems, and so will only be able to access new information in the vicinity of the Crystarium. Further than that, and it will only produce information that has been transferred to the device. While connected, you should be able to search for the information you need, or on other subjects, I suppose. But for that to have any value to you, there still remains the matter of the language barrier."

Unfortunate finds a small button on the side. She presses it; a faint glow lights the tomestone, a lighter shade of black. "Indeed. Dare I hope you have a solution for me there?"

G'raha reaches into his robes and produces a small sphere; too large to be comfortable in his hand, but about the right size for one of hers. "I have. These assistance nodes were put to good use by my-- companions, when we sought to determine a means to enact the plan. They've not been used in a century, hence my worry that they would not serve your current needs. However, I believe my fears to be unfounded. Simply activate the node, and it should guide you through configuring it to your liking, and it will provide you most of what you need. Should your searches be stymied by a lack of authority, provide one of the passwords from that paper. At least one of them should provide you access." He presses the node into her hand.

"G'raha, you marvelous-- come here." Unfortunate reaches up with one arm, pulling G'raha down to her level; she gives his face a tug and lifts her head to press a kiss to his cheek. He flushes brightly, and stands, looking anywhere but at the bedridden roegadyn before him. "You've given me a remarkable gift. Thank you."

The blush slowly fades from his cheeks. "Truly, this is the least of all things. Your delight is enough to make it entirely worthwhile. Do be aware that the translations will not be flawless, nor always read naturally."

Unfortunate smiles, turning the little node over in her hands. "Flattery will get you everywhere," she says. "But I simply cannot wait to investigate this little treasure. I'm sorry, but I'm about to be very rude."

G'raha rises, shaking his head. "No, don't apologize. I'll come check in on you later, if that's all right?"

He leaves her with a few more pleasantries exchanged. She feels at least a little badly about it, but-- only a little bit. She slides her fingers over the tomestone's screen; it lights up, displaying an incomprehensible bit of Allagan text. That's fine, to be expected. She sets it aside, and lifts the node, turning it over in her hands, looking for some manner of activation point.

There. It depresses faintly against her thumbnail. An array of lights moves around the little sphere, once, twice, thrice. Then it all lights up and lifts from her hand into the air. It emits a series of chirpy sounds all in Allagan. Then the lights shift, and change colour. The orb says, with a slightly Garlean accent, "Thank you for installing Ironworx version 6.0 as your bootloader of choice. For runtime options, please say 'options' prior to operating system load. Now loading primary operating system in ten, nine..."

Unfortunate purses her lips, but says nothing, allowing the node to finish starting up. She leans back in bed, nudging the node a little nearer in the air. The lights dim and go out, remaining like that for a second, then they come back on, brighter than before.

"Greetings from your new--" the node begins in the same voice as had spoken the Allagan, then suddenly shifts to the Garlean accent, "-- Ironworks Personal Assistant Node--" then back to the original voice, "-- designation Elia. This node offers an auto-sleep function ten seconds after each exchange. To re-awaken the node, simply state 'Elia' followed by your query. Guaranteed audio reception radius is ten fulms. To proceed, please agree to the following terms and conditions. -- Administrative override accepted. -- Terms and conditions accepted. Anonymous usage data will be transmitted to-- nowhere-- in order to improve your experience. Now calibrating voice pattern matching."

The node works her through a seemingly endless set of initial configuration questions, from learning her voice to setting a preferred hover distance to arranging for her organs to be harvested for research purposes after her death. At least, Unfortunate hopes it's after her death. "Elia, why are you asking my preferred genres of music?" she sighs after one particularly ludicrous question asking her preference between two different "waves" of music.

"Elia-designation personal assistant nodes offer a variety of music playback options while network connected," chirps the node. "Configuration seventy-two percent complete."

She sighs, and lets it keep asking these ludicrous questions. Near the end it sets up some sort of link with her tomestone; the text distorts for a moment before reforming into Eorzean. Several little marks inside the screen turn into, unmistakably, Ironworks logos. Letting out a breath, she says, "All right, Elia. Can I use you to run searches now?"

"Yes! I am able to search a variety of databases for both business and personal uses."

Right, then. What's the best way to ask. "Uh, let's start with finding me an overview of Amon's project to resurrect Emperor Xande. Maybe some kind of report detailing what he was doing? Maybe to an immediate superior."

The lights on the Elia go red. "Access restricted to T9-clearance project managers or higher. Please provide passcode. If you believe you have received this message in error, please contact your netw-- Junia Scaeva-- for assistance."

Unfortunate flips over the tomestone and squints at the note. "Uh, try delta delta gamma one seven ampersand rho nu eta four seven upsilon sigma nine. Can you tell me about this Junia Scaeva before proceeding with the previous query?"

The Elia flashes a pattern of several colours. "Accessing bootloader authorship data. Accessing. Loaded. Junia Scaeva Garlond. Chief software engineer of the Garlond Ironworks. To report program errors, please contact electricmindblower at..."

She lets her head drop onto the pillow, running her thumb along the tomestone's edge. Scaeva Garlond, huh. She wonders if that's normal Garlean convention or just something concocted out of neither one of those stubborn bastards letting the other's name take sole precedence. Does sound like Cid ended up letting Nero knock him up after all, though. Good for them. Even if that's in a future that'll never happen now. "Right, anyway, back to the query about Amon's project. Will that passcode suffice?"

"Passcode accepted. Now searching project management data files. Results anticipated in ten minutes. Beginning playback of default playlist, --'tempdraftfinal01'-- for duration of wait period."

Unfortunate rubs her hand beneath her glasses as the node starts to blare out some godsawful cacophony. "Cancel playback," she says, pulling off her spectacles and setting them aside. "Just alert me verbally when the search is complete, and again every five minutes after if I don't respond. I'm having a nap." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to leave this one to guessing because I don't want to be taken for someone who puts game of thrones references into things. [Elia is another deep cut FF reference](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4Ohn4lVwPI), chosen for being one of the few named female FF3 characters whose name hasn't already been used in FFXIV.
> 
> Junia would be, I suppose, Cid and Nero's great granddaughter. Give or take.


	13. Theory/Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. She really doesn't.

Life, in that interminable way it has, goes on. Unfortunate spends the rest of her convalesence taking furious notes based on the Elia's findings. The translations take enough time for the Elia to craft that it gives her plenty of time to go over what she already has. She fills pages with her cramped, sloppy hand, disorganized, arrows linking previous sections together. Aetherflow diagrams that would curl Y'shtola's hair with their lack of refinement spread out across sheets hastily adhered together at the edges to give extra room. Her work is done in a truly unholy mess of Mhachi and modern Ul'dahn notation styles, increasingly glued together with Allagan symbology.

Not for the first time, she finds herself envying the Sharlayan scholars for their educations. She draws her connections from the reports more or less intuitively, slapdash, cross-referencing the same phrases and trying to relate them to phenomena she's already familiar with. The definitions of terms she has the Elia locate for her often leave her just searching for more answers until she's so thoroughly sidetracked it's hard to follow her own notes.

A less _practical_ focus on her thaumaturgy might have better prepared her to try and work out what any of this means. But what's she going to do, ask Y'shtola for help? No, that will just raise further questions like 'why are you actually researching this', 'do you actually know what you're doing', or 'are you insane', none of which she really feels like answering. The simple fact is that of all her friends save perhaps Thancred, Y'shtola is the absolute _least_ likely to be willing to pursue a path laid down by the late Ascian, especially one that will inevitably require his resumed existence.

Even if it will lead to a _true_ lesser tragedy.

She spends the celebration seated in the back of the Stairs, nose to her tomestone, swiftly flicking through her latest batch of translations. Anything specifically about cloning she sets aside, marking it as likely non-pertinent. Xande's body was exhumed and re-inhabited, anyway, not cloned. Part of her thinks 'Ascian' for that, drifting back to Elidibus-Zenos, but given what eventually happened with Xande, that seems unlikely. No, her focus with Xande is on the matter of his _identity_. How Amon ensured that the man he resurrected to lead the empire was, in fact, the first emperor.

Regrettably, the primary thing that Unfortunate discovers about Amon is that the man was less a genius in his purported field and far more of a brilliant self-promoter. Bringing back Xande seems to have been his idea, but the project appears not to have progressed beyond the Doga and Unei cloning test phase for what strikes her as entirely too long.

Waving off yet another offer to buy her drinks, she changes tack and instead turns her attention to an elegant little formula that she found quite easily when looking up the Azys Lla documents. The so-called Genesis Expression. There's just one problem with it. It literally cannot work. Even with her limited knowledge of aetherochemistry, and less proficient math, once Unfortunate decodes the thing, this fact becomes quite clear.

She does not doubt the claims that it can create something from nothing-- she simply doesn't have the proficiency to doubt _that_. But it's beyond clear that as written, the aetheric drain from enacting the expression alone so vastly exceeds any possible output that there's no _point_ to it. Neither does it lay clear if the result will be able to sustain itself. And then there's all of this _equipment_ it calls for...

Damn it. Aetherochemistry isn't going to cut it. She needs something she can enact as pure magecraft.

Maybe the eikon containment facilities. Azys Lla is still in the air, after all. There must be a way to prevent that aetheric drain. And what did Unukalhai call the Expression? The key to controlling eikons? But that seems like such a waste. If it were made viable, you could do so much more...

After another week she's given a clean bill of health and full medical clearance to resume throwing herself into danger again. The Exarch is still busy re-opening the portal back to the Source, so for lack of anything better to do, Unfortunate finds herself on a little excursion out into the blasted, empty lands destroyed by the Flood, along with Thancred, Urianger, and Ryne. The place puts her in mind of nothing so much as the Burn, an unceasing flow of white.

She curls in the back of the skyslipper, sorting through documents saved to her tomestone. Urianger and Ryne do much the same, their noses deep in books.

Amon's work seems the least frustrating at the moment; Unfortunate turns her attention to tracking down information on a frequent collaborator on his papers. The name Salina Ouen comes up repeatedly on the most groundbreaking work; in particular she finds the name mentioned in passing on a report to a superior indicating her assistance being of some value in solving a problem of catastrophic destabilization of... something or other. Still, it seems like a safe bet that Unfortunate's found the real brains of the operation in this collaborator.

It's following this trail that Unfortunate finds herself looking at a directory of Amon and his research staff, dating from not long prior to Xande's resurrection. Pictures more crisp than any painting accompany names and small lists of accomplishments; a few have some additions that appear to be intended to be humourous. Amon is hardly the flamboyant figure she battled in Syrcus Tower, though she can see the seeds of it in the luminous eyeliner, the extreme highlighting of his cheekbones to make his face look nearly hollow, and the froth of his cravat. Chestnut curls spill past his shoulders, and Unfortunate really can't help but think the man handsome. Allagan fashion nonwithstanding.

The list further consists of an assortment of researchers all remarkably credentialed in a variety of fields, the list apparently sorted in order of status amongst the staff. Second from last on the list, amidst a throng of a good half-dozen research assistants with much slimmer biographies, is the name Salina Ouen. Her credentials are few, her hobbies bland, her home explicitly described as a small town. There is nothing in the least bit remarkable about her. Nothing to suggest that this might be the genius behind Amon's work. By the text alone, Unfortunate should likely look at someone else on the staff.

The picture of Salina is of a sleepy-eyed hyur woman in roughly her mid-thirties, with hair dyed a deep marine blue, loose waves framing a narrow face. What cosmetics she wears are much plainer than fashionable, gauged against the Amon of this time; her look wouldn't even be terribly out of place in the here-and-now. She's quite pretty, but not so that she'd stand out. Much like her credentials. Much like her history. Much like her position in the laboratory. The picture shows her almost, but not quite smiling; only half of her mouth is involved in the gesture, leaving her to look both dreadfully bored and terribly amused.

Balancing a pad of parchment on one knee, Unfortunate uses her sharpened charcoal to underline the name 'Salina Ouen' three times.

An assortment of Salina's personal files are in the collection she has saved, but Unfortunate finds herself stymied by a familiar request for a password. Using the text input, she punches in each of the codes G'raha Tia gave her. None of them work.

She pulls up the directory again and stares at the preserved image of this woman five thousand years dead. Unfortunate swallows, pressing her lips together, and returns to the archive, reawakening the prompt for a password. _Obvious. Too obvious. There's no way this will work._ The thoughts pound through her head. She's on the wrong track, she has to be.

Unfortunate moves her lips silently, sounding out Allagan characters. She punches in the name of Salina's hometown. Her _real_ hometown.

The directory opens, the files within still untranslated.

The tomestone has a basic translation utility. The few times she's used it, the results have been far worse than the Elia's, but it's all she's got so far away from the tower. She sets it to work, tosses the tomestone on the seat beside herself and crosses her arms across her chest. Still malms of wasteland ahead.

* * *

There is something about Eden that makes Unfortunate salivate. Possibly the sheer amounts of aether being moved. And the excitement's infectious, just contemplating _fixing_ this blighted land, setting its aether aright. Let the boys worry about their little intruder. If anything happens with her, well, that's a solvable problem.

Heh. She's getting her energy back, then. Times like these, Unfortunate doesn't mind being the universal solution. She doesn't even mind being flung, yet again, at some damned primals. It'll be good practice-- a good excuse to enact these very critical principles.

As it turns out, she needs that practice.

"What the fuck was that, Urianger? Leviathan did _not_ have two heads!" She waves her hand in the general direction of the control console, where Ryne very politely does her best to stay out of the way of three hundred ponze very irate black mage.

Urianger discreetly steps back from Unfortunate's gesticulating. "'Twas thine imagining, and not mine. Perhaps thy focus became disrupted, and thou didst consider some other manner of water-aspected creature whilst also visualizing the Lord of the Whorl. 'Tis to be expected that thy vision of Leviathan be different than that of the sahagin."

Okay maybe she didn't _exactly_ remember which side of the boat was the head and which was the tail. She rubs the heel of her palm against her forehead. "_Fuck_ my _ass_," she growls. "Fine. Empty mind. Clarity of thought. I'll get it right the next time."

"Um."

"And don't you start, Ryne, you know all the words."

* * *

Salina's notes are remarkably comprehensive, for being the work of someone who strictly speaking didn't actually need to write any of this down. The translation is _bad_, though. Unfortunate squints at the tomestone with her head under the blanket so as not to disturb Ryne, curled beside her. The sentences are mangled, and each one is an effort to pick her way through.

She furiously scribbles as she struggles to read, trying out possible synonyms or alternate connotations where the feeble translation is inadequate. When she does find a satisfying meaning for a sentence, she finds them-- Salina's trains of thought are by far more comprehensible to her than those of Amon or the other Allagan scientists' work she's been going over. It's no less technical, but the way she organizes her thoughts are clear, easy to follow. Arcane, but... well, _arcane_. Magi-before-adding-the-tech, as it were.

It's so easy to follow, in fact, that Unfortunate realizes with relative ease what her first, and likely largest problem is going to be with this little project. She's going to need a soul.

An _intact_ soul.

Not one shattered into a thousand pieces, bundled into a knot of crystal really not meant for _that_ sort of thing. Unfortunate bangs her head lightly against the edge of the tomestone after closing the file. The rest of it seemed to be about how to pull a soul from the Lifestream, which isn't what she needs.

Unfortunate flips the tomestone over to lie flat on the bedroll and shuts her eyes. At least Ryne doesn't snore.

* * *

"Ryne, we need to have a talk about safety rails. Is there a reason you don't think they're necessary?" The mud just isn't coming off her coat. Damn it. She's just smearing it around trying to get it off. Not that the rest of her is any cleaner. The mud's in her _hair_, it's caking on her face.. ugh.

The girl looks awfully sheepish about the whole thing, at least. "I forgot, I guess. But you made it through all right?"

"You had to build _floor_ underneath me as I tried to hold onto the edge-- an edge that it _drove_ me off of, which, what in every hell, Urianger? Wheels? Really? Do you have a theory on that? And what was with its _feet_?"

Urianger's face is astonishingly straight. "Immediately before thou set thyself to work crafting thy vision of Titan, didst thou not say, word for word, 'It's been a long time. Most of what I remember are landslides and it hitting me like a trolley'?" Unfortunate's lips slam together in a tight line, but Urianger continues. "As for the... indeed, uncanny detail shown in the sculpting of the beast's feet, perhaps it bespeaks some manner of peculiar sexual fixation?"

"..."

He just looks her dead in the eye, expressionless. Ryne stifles a giggle.

"Oh, fuck _off,_ unless you want me to tell Thancred about that _reading material_ you had me pick up for you in Kugane." She shakes herself all over, as if that'll dismiss the mud or the fact that one of her closest companions chose _this_ moment to murder her in cold blood. She huffs past them both for the aetheryte. "I'm going to the skyslipper. I need to do laundry, and that's not happening out here. Anyone not with me in a bell is getting left behind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep cut reference corner: 'Salina' is an extremely minor FF3 character; a girl who fell for the amnesiac ancient Desh. Ouen was a previous common romanization of the tower/Ancient prior to it being officially localized as Owen. Late addition: I guess it was also the name of the last princess of Allagan in FFXIV but, eh, it's a distinct enough name, there's certainly been more than one of them in existence.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by the really weirdly detailed feet on the E4 Titan model. I'll never be able to un-see this, and now neither can you.


	14. Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because everyone tells her to relax doesn't mean they're right.
> 
> Lotus Eater belongs to [AuntAgony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuntAgony); gratefully used with her permission. Sorry for being unable to dodge aoes in the presence of your majestic glams.

"Elia, can you record from an orchestrion without a tower connection?" Unfortunate moves around her rooms, checking locks on drawers and doing one final, perfunctory tidy. On top of the for-once made bed she tosses a set of her softest pants and a battered, ragged shirt.

The node's lights blink almost sullenly, rotating sluggishly through a series of warm colours. In that vaguely Garlean voice Unfortunate has come to recognize as Junia's, the Elia responds, "Digital rights protection has been disabled. A very productive use of my time. Record and play back what you like, just so long as I don't have to hear it."

Unfortunate closes her hand around the Elia unit. "Okay, great. You're coming with me, then. Elia, disable hovering and go into quiet mode until further notice." When the weight of the unit fills her palm, she tucks the Elia into an inner coat pocket.

Her shopping list, such as it is, goes into the same pocket. She's not chancing carrying a lot of other baggage through the rift; just what she can easily carry on her person. The return trip might be tricky, but she _thinks_ the equipment she needs is going to be small enough that this will work.

Which does include the tomestone. She flips through her batch of saved files, double-checking that there's going to be enough to keep her busy back on the Source. The Salina documents she'd found before, retranslated by the Elia, along with several other folders that are supposedly hers. More from the Azys Lla work, as much of a dead end as that's turning out to be. A little on Dalamud, just for light reading as a distraction. She slides that into an inner pocket, as well, then buttons and buckles her coat shut.

She meets the Exarch in the Ocular; bends to kiss him on the cheek. "Scare me up a boilmaster from that basement of yours and we'll share a cup of tea when I get back, hmm? I'm going to try and get a brick or two of the good aged stuff out of Hingashi. Put some hair on your... crystal."

He gives her a bemused little look, then looks down at himself. "A bit too much of a reach, my friend," he says, laughing with her. "But I'll see what I can find. I look forward to it. Safe journey."

Unfortunate steps through the portal, squeezing her eyes shut as she passes through the rift, stomach clenching. It feels like she's being turned inside-out for one horrible second. An instant later and she's back standing in the Syrcus trench; dizzy, but everything all in the right place.

Mor Dhona is a hard place to miss. The persistent gloom, the chill air down from Coerthas that gets into the bones, the faint, inescapable scent of morbol. And yet, looking out across the lake as a Son of Saint Coinach rows her back to shore, there is a certain warmth of nostalgia that touches her heart. Nostalgia for _what_ is hard exactly to say. It's definitely not being run out of town by Crystal Braves, or having a dragon eat her blessings, or watching a friend bleed out on the floor of the solar, or... well, never mind that. There've been good times here. A few of them. Maybe. All right, showing off for the children with Hoary had been good. And Rowena's backroom stock of erotic tomestones. Not that those are a likely cause of her sense of homecoming.

She's being silly, isn't she.

The walk from shore to Revenant's Toll is uneventful; her back is a little up when she gets to town all the same. She doesn't really need to get mobbed by people who know just enough to know she's been gone. But nobody really pays her any mind as she trudges through the gates and up to the Seventh Heaven. For a mercy, that damned minstrel isn't in his little corner. She slips past that spot as discreetly as someone of her size can, into the Rising Stones.

Just catching up with Tataru takes a couple hours over cups of that piss-weak green tea the lalafell took a shine to in Kugane. At least for the second pot and beyond they compromise on toasted-rice tea. The taste is like nothing so much as it is the feeling of curling up in a warm blanket during a rainstorm. It doesn't quite cut through Unfortunate's strange feeling of absence from her own senses, but it's pleasant nonetheless.

(She notices, lips wrapped around the rim of her teacup, just how much more often she gets that sense of not-quite-connection to her own body when she's trying to feel nice things, rather than awful. But noticing never really changes things like that, does it?)

"All right, so long as things are stable here, I'm probably only going to be around for a week or so," says Unfortunate. "The First probably needs the attention more, what with the upending of a century-long status quo and all. Do you mind sourcing a few things for me while I'm out and about catching up?"

Tataru bobs her head in a few nods, and grabs a pad of paper from her desk. "Of course! So long as you don't mind any expenses coming out of your stipend..." She trails off meaningfully, though her smile doesn't break.

Unfortunate taps her index fingers together. She smiles, just as fixedly. "So long as you've still been crediting it to me while I've been away. All of this has still been Scion business, after all."

Only half a beat gets skipped. "Not a problem at all. What do you need?"

She draws out her list from her pocket. "Some of this is pretty simple. Thancred wants his second-best set of knives. Oh, right, here's a letter from Y'shtola for her sister. I'm hoping you can get me two good bricks of aged Hingan tea; at least a ten-year ferment on them, please." She lists off a few other odds and ends that she'll be able to stuff into a traveling pack easily enough, Tataru nodding all the while. "Okay, here's the tricky stuff. First off, I need a high-capacity, unaspected crystal. About yea long," she holds her hands about a fulm apart, "and no more than an ilm thick. Size is more or less flexible, I can make do with some variance. The really important thing is that it needs to be _flawless_. Not eye clean. Not loupe clean. Flawless."

Tataru looks up from her notes. "That _is_ going to cost you. You know that's not going to be easy to find, especially if you're only planning on staying a week."

"Don't care," says Unfortunate. "I'm sorry to say that money's no object on this. I am going to need this before I go back, too. Book me to appear at one of those godsawful fundraisers if you have to."

The colour drains out of Tataru's face. "I... I see. Well, so long as you remember it's your personal money being spent here and not the Scions', I'll get the best bargain I can for you. But don't _say_ things like that, Unfortunate!"

She shrugs. "You're acting on my behalf, so I figured you need to know. There's a few other things I need, though-- probably best to go through the Ironworks for this. Tell them Azys Lla should have the equipment I need-- the Continuum, not the main research facility. I've got parts numbers for all of these; I should write them down for you before I head out. Uh, what do I need, a, uh, thimble amplifier, a variable frequency modulator with aetheric personal interface hooks, and a precision spindler. Now, that modulator might need heightened access; it's not a production model. But I'm given to understanding that there should be some in existence in those facilities. I can provide passcodes that should work. Ugh, why don't I just write this all down."

Having given up at roughly the word 'amplifier', Tataru nods. "Y-ees, that's probably for the best. But is there anything else that you need? This is going to be a little much."

That seems to be everything on the list. Unfortunate purses her lips, double-checking it. "Just a couple messages to pass along, if you don't mind? One to Aymeric. Tell him... just say that I'm looking forward to catching up with him. In case he's not in Ishgard when I'm passing through. For the other, ask Jessie to see if she can get word to Nero somehow. It's fine if I don't get a response before I head back. But if she could tell him that I need someone who can read Allagan fairly fluently, and I _will_ make it worth his while. I have access to materials that are very much relevant to his interests. If he can send me a pearl that I can reach him with, I would be very appreciative."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Tataru furrows her brow. "It's no trouble to send the messages. Just... I don't know what you're working on, and I _know_ he was helpful with Omega, but..."

"I have never once in my life done something that I was sure was wise, and I don't mean to start now." Unfortunate flashes a wicked grin as she pours herself another cup of tea. "Oh, and you should have my itinerary. From here to Ul'dah, that's... I won't be more than a day there. Two at absolute most. Any longer and it feels like the walls are closing in on me. But I want to check in on Lalai, see how she's doing. Messages can go to Momodi if it's an absolute emergency. Two or three days in Ishgard after that; Forgotten Knight's still the best place to have anything sent that you need to. From there, just home to Mist. I need to make sure Lotus hasn't sold the cat, and I'd like to get at least a _little_ time to relax on the beach. Then back here of course before I go. I'm going to need to speak with Unukalhai when I get back, too. Nothing urgent, just have him get his nose out of the books for me, hmm?" She leans over to borrow the pad of paper from Tataru and scrawls down the Allagan parts codes she's going to need, along with the names.

Tataru pours herself one last cup of tea and looks all the way up at Unfortunate. "Okay. Make sure you do relax. You need to take better care of yourself, Unfortunate. I worry. We all worry. Every time you come back, it's like you're a little bit..."

Unfortunate shuts her eyes tightly, closing out the room for a moment. She lets out a long, deep breath. "I do my best, Tataru. I really do. Steal away what moments I can, all that. But if I need to choose between myself and the world, what would you have me do?"

* * *

She hates Ul'dah. Moreover, she hates that she hates Ul'dah. There was a time she loved it; the chaos of the crowds, the smells of the markets, the way it never sleeps even in the darkest of nights. This is a joy that has been stolen from her, crushed and stamped out. Perversity might demand that she not let bad memories rule her, but perversity can't stop the cold sweats she feels stepping out of the aetheryte plaza and into the heat she now finds oppressive. How long ago was it? A year ago? Two? Maybe longer? Thal's sagging balls, she doesn't even know. It feels like her whole life. It _was_ a lifetime ago.

But she'll put up with it for Lalai's sake, her partner-in-crime, her teacher, the one who gave her the foundations of Mhachi, who guided her down a path inexorable. Even if she doesn't have the sense to tie that miqo'te down and ride him like a freight train. Yet.

It's an honour and a privilege to cover for her while she recovers from her own aetheric drain. It helps Unfortunate from kicking herself for not seeing the signs sooner, too. But Zhai'a knows what he's doing, and he's far too smitten to fail.

Anyway, it's nice to have some small hand in getting her own arts decriminalized. Acknowledged by the guild. Whatever.

But it's even nicer to get out of that godsforsaken shithole of a city and materialize by the aetheryte in Ishgard, pausing to catch her breath.

Aymeric is out of town. Of course he is. So she makes her way back down to the Forgotten Knight and meets up with Sidurgu and Rielle. That's a long night of drinking, at least on hers and Sid's parts while she relates the story for the third time since crossing back over. Most of it goes over Sid's head, but that's fine. Sid's a good boy. Rielle catches on a little bit more than she lets on, watching Unfortunate with those eyes that say the same damn thing everyone else tells her. But Rielle at least doesn't say it.

Sidurgu gives her a letter, unsigned. Unfortunate decides to track down the sender. You know what happens here, and if you don't, I'm not going to violate her privacy. I've given you everything else about her. Let this tiny mote of a core remain our own. What she does isn't important. What she feels is, but if you can't gather what she feels about all this, you haven't been paying any attention. Which means that maybe I haven't been arresting enough with my account. But you're still here, aren't you? What would that say, about you and about me?

I'll give you this much: it ends at night, above a ravine in Coerthas. We stand back-to-back against the wind, and though she'll never turn to look at my face, I can tell you she's been crying. Not for stress, nor for being overwhelmed by pain or fear or feeling something on the knife-edge of our soul that we can't see or name. Just crying. 

I let her. Of course I do. She's held them in for so long; she has to let them out sometime. When else will she, but when I am here to protect her?

I say my piece. You either know what that is, or you don't. And when all is said and done, she asks me, "Is this going to work?"

She feels it when I shrug. She knows that's not the sort of thing I can answer. 

"Just thought you might know, what with..." She trails off, palming our crystal. She's trying not to feel embarrassed and failing badly. "Heh. It doesn't work like that, I know. But I do need to... I need to hear me say this. Thank you for-- for bearing that pain for me."

You don't need to know my response. Not the words of it. Let's move on, shall we? I don't need to address you to gift you this tale, any more than she needs the weight of my armour pressed to her back to know what I feel. We may now replace the curtain, and you may forget that I am here, the proverbial third person-- or not.

Unfortunate heads back to Ishgard proper and says her goodbyes to Sidurgu and Rielle. With at least some weight off her shoulders, she returns to a place that she can more or less call home these days.

The little house tucked in a corner of a hillside in Mist was a gift from Merlwyb and Eynzahr, ostensibly for a combination of service to the Maelstrom and for putting on remarkable shows at both Hullbreaker Isle and during the melee at Ishgard. In reality, it came out of a drunken night after that latter, where Merlwyb, untouchable goddess that she is, resolved to end Unfortunate's laments of living out of inns and people's spare bedrooms. Of course, the Admiral and Marshal both had been more than a few drinks gone themselves, but neither would be dissuaded in the light of day.

Perhaps it wasn't one of her most ethical of moments to accept a gift of that magnitude, but it got written off as a consulting fee to the Maelstrom rather than a reward for Scioning, and Unfortunate was far too taken aback to even try pressing the issue further.

So she found herself a homeowner. She can't spend nearly as much time there as she likes, but she pays one of the neighbours to mind the lawn. It's nice-- they don't even seem to realize she's the Warrior of Light, just a fellow adventurer who hasn't yet gotten out of the game. Unfortunate walks around the outside, closing her eyes, just taking in the personal sense of quiet.

A 'mrreep' greets her as she steps inside, cutting through a blaring orchestrion, followed by a more insistent meow and the thump of four feet landing on the ground. Within seconds, a pudgy tabby cat is winding his way around her ankles. Against her back's better judgement, she bends to scratch the cat's ears, and finds herself forcefully headbutted. "I missed you too, Estie. Is Lotus around?"

Lotus Eater, another Scion, met early in her adventures. In much the same boat as Unfortunate herself as far as living out of bags goes, so she could hardly stop herself from offering the other Hellsguard a spot in her basement. Someone to feed Estie and drink all the booze so there's never enough left in the house for Unfortunate to develop a drinking problem. Good with her hands, too.

"In here," Lotus' voice sounds from the kitchen. Unfortunate picks up Estinyan and carries the cat over. He purrs like a castrum full of badly-tuned magitech. Lotus' eyes widen, seeing Unfortunate. She immediately starts packing a fresh bowl into the water-pipe on the kitchen table. "Thought you weren't supposed to be be back for a while. _Gods_, you look like shit. The hells happened to your _hair_?"

Unfortunate thumps into a chair and lets the cat go; he resumes winding around her ankles, meticulously rebuilding the layers of his scent on them. She takes the pipe and lights it with a flame off her thumbnail, taking a long, deep hit of the smoke. "Aether poisoning. More or less. I don't wanna talk about it right now. I've explained this shit three times in four days. If you Echo it off me, well, there you go, I guess. But for your sake, I hope you don't. It got _bad_." She passes the water-pipe back, letting out a deep cloud of thick white smoke.

A quick stir of the bowl and Lotus takes a hit of her own, the flame sparkling a little off her fingertip. Damn flashy red mages. "Well. Shit. How long're you in for?"

"Few days. Not much more than that." Unfortunate leans back in her chair, letting her feet kick against the wall. A warm tingle runs through her arms, teasing out some of the tension. "I've got stuff that needs doing back on the other side. I just... needed some time away. Do some reading."

Lotus bends to scratch behind Estie's ears, stealing him away from Unfortunate's legs. "Reading _what_, exactly? And don't answer that cause I know it's just more work. I _live_ with your library, remember."

Unfortunate frowns. "Most of that's not work. I've been practicing thaumaturgy long before I ever met up with any Scion. I _like_ reading. I mean, this kind of is work? But I don't _want_ to put it down."

The cat purrs loudly underneath the table. Lotus keeps scratching. "Sure you don't. And I've seen people dead under a bridge who didn't _want_ to stop whatever it was they were taking, but it killed them all the same. Even when it woulda been safe if they'd just stopped sooner. Ever heard of pacing yourself?"

"There's only so many hours in a day." Unfortunate lifts her spectacles, rubbing her palm all over her face. "I _try_ to relax. Shit, back in the Crystarium, I picked up this girl at a party after they finished putting me back together. You know, after all the... the fighting was done, so there wasn't even any work to do. Literally picked her up, I mean. I put her on my shoulders and ate her out. And I mean, I'd spent the whole night reading before that. It's not like they conflict with each other." 

Estie jumps up onto the table, stretching himself out between the two women, both of whom take it as an appropriate sign to give him the attention he deserves. "I don't believe you," says Lotus. "About trying. Would it kill you to do something for yourself for once? Past the minimum you need to get on your feet again? When's the last time you actually connected with anyone _outside_ of work?"

Right. Outside of it. She frowns to herself. Well, there's Aymeric. But, no, that's founded on work, on both ends. _An argument at the end of a world._ Definitely work, and definitely not the sort of connection Lotus had meant. A familiar-unfamiliar picture of a dead woman. Still work, and dead twice over. At least. A held hand under an apple tree. Very, very much work. "Fuck off," says Unfortunate softly, with no force behind it. "How am I supposed to... you know what I _am._ What am I supposed to be able to connect _with_? Sure, it's nice when random people don't know who I am, but if I'm going to talk to someone twice, they should know that part of me. And all that does is..."

Lotus throws up her hands, startling Estie into leaping off the table. "Fine. Fine, sure, you know what, you've got all the answers. You're miserable because there's no way for you not to be. Go out and fuck some random jackass like that's going to change anything and then keep running yourself into the ground until you're dead of a heart attack at thirty-five. At least that way I'll have the house to myself and I can clear out some of these damn textbooks."

She does end up going out to fuck some random jackass, and no, it doesn't help, not really. Oh, she _enjoys_ the sensation of chest beneath her nails, the droplets of blood welling up beneath them where she scratches too deep, the sounds she elicits as she rides her lucky choice hard enough to make the bedsprings squeal with protest, smacking the hands that try and touch her, all of it. But she enjoys it like she enjoys eating a bowl of blueberries doused with cool fresh cream and sugar, or like lying on grass under stars. It's nice. Not engaging. And she doesn't even bother, this time, pretending like it's doing anything special for her. Unfortunate lets him spend himself in her; her cycle's so erratic from stress and just hard physical activity that her only concern from that is just the mess. But she cleans herself up, heading home in the wee hours of the morning.

She tiptoes around the sleeping cat, and Lotus in an armchair, lost in the maze of some Thavnairian powder that sparks love and waking dreams and all those lovely things. She hasn't been able to enjoy that sort of thing herself since the last deliberate poisoning. But good for Lotus.

The next few days go by entirely too swiftly, mostly spent sprawled out on the beach in a skimpy suit, getting some sun as she reads over Salina's notes on restoring Xande's soul to a state of proper repair, so that it could be placed within his body once more. She pauses over an acerbic aside about one of the Allagan's co-workers to consider once more the matter of a vessel for the soul.

Well, lacking cloning technology, there's only one way to do it, and she's not all that sure there's a safe way. The Expression is non-viable, and designed for aetherochemical applications. What she _needs_ to do is... a thing that would be instinctive for any child of Amaurot. Well, something this complex probably wouldn't be. A created thing so real a soul could settle into it, like hand into glove.

And her Titan had had wheels and really creepy feet.

She rests the tomestone on her forehead and shuts her eyes, closing off everything but the soft flow of waves.

* * *

Unukalhai awaits her in the solar. Masked and robed, and oh yes, she recognizes both those things now. She'd once thought the robes were Elidibus being a little cheeky about the spy being planted into their midst-- white for an emissary, as he'd once impressed upon her. Now she knows the entire getup to be Elidibus being _extremely_ cheeky, about things she had no way of knowing about at the time.

But the boy doesn't seem to know or appreciate it either. If he does, he's a better actor than he's let on thus far. "You wished to speak with me, Mistress Incident?"

Unfortunate waves him over to the seats by the fire. She lets him get settled first, then joins him. "Yes-- oh, before I get to what I wanted to talk to you about, do you remember from dealing with the Triad, that bit about the Allagan Genesis Expression? Do you know if they ever incepted it in other forms, or if it was pure aetherochemistry?"

He blinks. "I was only ever made familiar with it as an aetherochemical expression," he says, and the confusion is clear in his voice even through the mask. "May I inquire why you wish to know?"

She waves a hand dismissively. "No reason," she lies. "I came across mention of it in some other Allagan materials that've come through my hands lately, and I had a passing curiosity. Anyway, I had something very different to speak with you about."

"I am entirely at your disposal."

"Hm, I hope so," says Unfortunate, doodling her finger against an arm of her chair. "I won't be upset at either a yes or a no on this, but-- have you been in contact with your master lately?"

Unukalhai pauses, his posture growing a little bit guarded. But he answers, saying, "I have not heard from him in some time, no. This is not particularly unusual, as he often becomes absorbed in other tasks. But I had expected that I would, sooner than this..."

Something about that prompts a morose smile from her. "I imagine he's been very busy lately. I'd apologize but I'm not actually sorry. That's fine. Do you have a means of getting in contact? I need to get a message to him."

If Unfortunate's initial question surprised Unukalhai, this one outright takes him aback. "For emergencies, yes. I imagine the Warrior of Light needing to speak would be one..."

"It is a matter of some importance, yes," says Unfortunate. She shuts her eyes, composing her thoughts. "Word for word, please: Emet-Selch is dead, by my own hand and mine alone. I assume that you know this already. I reach out now not to offer condolences, but because I believe it imperative that we speak in the near future. I believe Emet-Selch had a task he wished me to perform for him, and that if I am correct, several of our purposes are compatible. However, I realize that I have not precisely made myself out to be trustworthy with my recent actions." She hesitates. But no. Time to commit. "Consequently, you should expect another message from me in the near future. That message will serve as proof of my skill, and as..."

She takes another deep breath. The smile that twists her lips is bitter as uncured olives. "... and as a show of good faith."


	15. That Which Can Yet Be Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows exactly what she is doing. She is very likely mad.

There remains one final bit of preparation before her, and possibly the one she's looking forward to the least. But first things first: the trip to Il Mheg requires that she go and pay her respects to the king before she do anything else, or she'll never hear the end of it.

So Unfortunate grits her teeth and endures the fussing over the state of her soul (much better, thank you), weight lost due to recovery (yes, _mother_, she's been eating to make up for it), not reaching out enough (she's sorry, she's sorry), and all of that. She smiles and she nods and she seethes at being treated yet again like she doesn't know how to take care of herself.

She knows what she's doing. She knows exactly what she's doing.

Urianger lets her in, once she's escaped from Feo Ul's clutches. "Ah, Unfortunate," he says. "I did not anticipate thy return so swiftly. We've not yet prepared to return to Eden, if that was a concern of thine. Come, and I shall prepare a pot of tea."

"Good to know," says Unfortunate, clearing a stack of papers off one of the chairs that Urianger vaguely waves at. "I'm eager to get back to it but that's not actually why I'm here. Call this a-- consultation, of sorts. Oh, and I did get you those cookies you like and that book of astrological tables you were after." She rummages through her bag, pulling up both (several packages of the cookies, since they're to last) and setting them on the table.

He returns after a few minutes carrying a teapot snugly nestled under a cozy, a pair of mugs dangling from his long fingers. Urianger sits and examines the bakery's stamps on the cookie-boxes, nodding with approval before breaking the seal on one. "I admit that thou'st piqued mine curiosity. 'Tis not often that thou seek'st me out for such matters. I do thank thee for retrieving these items for me, by the by."

Unfortunate waves it off with a flip of the hand. "No trouble at all. This is... about a personal project of mine." She frowns, then just looks at the teapot for a few moments. "There's a few reasons why I'm talking to you about this and no one else. You might be the only one who I think might understand _why_ I'm doing what I'm doing. And why I'm doing it the way I am."

Both of Urianger's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't prompt her any further. Instead, he waits about one more minute and lifts the tea cozy. He pours; the liquor comes out a delightful orange-red, scented of pine and caramel and some berry Unfortunate can't quite name.

She waits for him to sip first, which he does without comment, knowing well her... quirks by now. Only then does she pick up her mug and take a sip of the tea; sweet, with only a faint hint of smoke in the aftertaste. And is that a note of orange in there somewhere? More delicate than she favours, but the complexity teases her tongue to try to unravel the lot of it. "Well," she says. "The short version is that this is a profoundly stupid idea, which naturally made me think of you."

"Perhaps I should rescind mine offer of hospitality."

"Mm," says Unfortunate, looking into her mug. "You'll understand. You remember how you fell in with the old Warriors of Darkness? Well, that you did. Did you ever mention how that happened? I don't remember. Well, never mind. Not important, that bit. I do remember you saying that when you learned what had happened to their world-- this world-- you knew you had to help. Even if helping in that case involved some very morally and ethically dubious actions on your part. Which I hope you don't dispute."

Urianger takes a cookie from the box and waves a hand over it at Unfortunate. "Verily, I cannot. Pray tell then, what matter dost thou perceive to be so dire?"

The thin chocolate layer coating the cookie Unfortunate takes melts beneath her thumb. She says, glancing between tea and cookie, trying to decide whether to dunk or not, "I spoke with Emet-Selch on a number of occasions before he passed. Privately, too, I mean. I assume you wondered why he approached us at all. He didn't really need to go to the effort-- indeed if he _hadn't_, I would very likely be a Lightwarden right now."

"Very naturally I did," says Urianger. He does not dunk; he bites his cookie clean in half. "However, whenever I did attempt to engage with him, he swiftly made his excuses to quit mine presence. This was not thine experience, then?"

Unfortunate dunks for just a few seconds, wiggling it in the hot tea before retrieving it. "Not at all. The obvious suspicion I had was that he was trying to turn me to his cause. But I ruled that one out fairly quickly. No, I determined that there was something he wanted me to do-- that I would _choose_ to do. And that whatever it was, it would require that I be at least so powerful as to contain all of the Lightwardens."

The noise that Urianger makes is too thoughtful. "But why didst thou think that he held no hope of winning thee over? If indeed thou sought out his presence as oft as thou claimst. Ah. Of course. He believed thee to be enlightened by the Mothercrystal."

The rest of her cookie breaks off into her tea as Unfortunate pinches straight through it. "Yes," Unfortunate says through her teeth. "He did." She leans back, sitting more rigidly in her chair. The tea slurps with her next sip, far too large of one.

"It simply follows," says Urianger, "that if he and his have been so afflicted that he would believe the same of thee, after thy contacts. What dost thou believe of the matter?"

"That it would answer a number of questions." says Unfortunate, frowning. "But that in the end it doesn't matter. I choose to do what I do-- if that is because of Her or not, it will not stop me. Still-- I'd rather you keep this supposition to yourself. I get enough people being concerned for me over enough things."

When Urianger doesn't answer, Unfortunate sighs. "I'd insist, but I fear I wouldn't be able to believe a promise I extracted so. Let's put it like this-- and this is the heart of why I'm here talking to you today at all. My issue isn't with using concealment when needed. If knowing too much is a liability, then just _say_ so-- I've trusted your judgement when you've done _that_, like with battling Fordola, or even when you wouldn't tell me the plan for Mount Gulg. I don't think it's going to be anyone's benefit to know what the Mother may or may not have done to my head. Trust _my_ judgement on this one?"

"I shall honour thy privacy," says Urianger after a moment. "Though I would not so swiftly dismiss such a thing as 'not mattering'. Indeed, it might be better possible to give aid, knowing that simple fact. But it seems unlikely that thou shalt do thyself any _more_ harm as a consequent than thou already dost."

She rolls her eyes and drains her tea, reaching into her cup to try and coax the ruins of cookie out. "Fine. Whatever reason's fine. So anyway-- Emet-Selch wanted me to do something for him. I've been working out how to take first steps on that. Now I'm about as ready to make a move as I'll ever be. So. Consider yourself my... safety contact. Like if I were about to go exploring some dangerous cave, or go home with someone who's into knives. Telling you what I'm going to go do will compromise it. But if you don't hear from me before roughly a week's past, I'm in trouble. And see? If you'd just done _something like that_ before with _literally anyone_ I might be less cranky about what happened."

Urianger pours himself another cup of tea; it's darker now, a rich red. "I did not consider the danger so immediate, or else perhaps-- but let us not dwell on the mistakes of our past. I'll not seek to dissuadeth thee, but I must express mine concern. By thine own examples, one wouldst name and provide the location of the cave, or provide the address of the dangerous suitor-- or at least leave a linkpearl with the one thou trusteth, in both cases. Thou'st provided precious little information. Should there indeed be danger-- what wouldst thou have me do, with what thou'st told me?"

The sludge of cookie removed from her cup, Unfortunate pours herself more tea as well. She says, after a moment frowning, "Seek out the Exarch and ask him to track my Elia unit. He'll know what that means. Even without a direct connection to the Tower, nothing else on the First is going to be putting out signals like that. Should be able to locate me from that."

"If that is the best thou offer'st, 'tis better than nothing," says Urianger. He takes another cookie. "Wilt thou say'st nothing at all about thine intentions? If indeed thy task is as significant as the plight of the First proved to be, there might yet be some manner in which I might assist."

Unfortunate closes her eyes, inhaling the aroma of her tea deeply. "No," she says softly, against her tea. "I don't think you can. I'm still preparing-- what I'm about to enact is a necessary step, not the fruition of the whole. But you could liken the ultimate end to battling another primal, much as I hope this will not come to blows."

She puts her cup down and looks across the table to Urianger. "You see," Unfortunate says, the beatific smile crossing her lips not a little bit mad, "I mean to save Zodiark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> * * *
> 
> [The tea of the hour.](https://www.teavivre.com/lapsang-souchong-wild-black-tea.html) I haven't tried this one yet, but I mean to soon.


	16. Meaning Without Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither one of them particularly wished for the life of a public figure, and certain realities of the matter chafe.

Hythlodaeus is insufferably smug about it of course, all without saying a word. Neither Chrysanthe nor Hades ever actually _tell_ him, but that's never stopped Hythlodaeus. The way that little smile would just pinpoint so much as a briefly held hand-- so no, they never acknowledge it near him. Take pains to keep it from him. They arrange so that he sits between them. They each spend time with him alone. They behave perfectly normally, as if they've not neatly signed and delivered potential conflict-of-interest forms and spend more evenings than not in each other's homes, reading the other's books.

It's honestly not much different from before they decided they were anything other than friends. More held hands. More fiddling with the other's hair, leaning against each other, reading pleasing (or _dis_pleasing) turns of phrase aloud to make each other smile or wince.

Thus, it sets Chrysanthe's teeth on edge when, after a concert one night, over smoked melon wine, Hythlodaeus leans back to regard the both of them, and finally says, "You see? I told you so. I've never seen you both so happy."

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Hades around his glass, glaring mightily at Hythlodaeus. Chrysanthe looks anywhere but at the two of them, taking up a little spherical wafer from the table. It blossoms into a flower in their mouth, herbaceous and sweet.

Hythlodaeus leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, face going uncommonly serious. "Of course not. But truthfully-- you know that there's going to be gossip."

Chrysanthe pinches their glass tightly between thumb and forefinger. They frown tightly. Gossip. Inescapable gossip; words that carry through the air, twinging the lines of connection drawn between people. Hard for them to tune out; the vocal ranges always are the trickiest, impinging on multiple of their senses. "A fine time for you to raise _that_ concern after so many years of efforts."

"Is it so hard to believe that after seeing you circle around each other like little stormclouds for so long, I might _actually_ want to see you two happy?" Hythlodaeus selects one of the little wafer-baubles and crunches down on it; Chrysanthe hears the faint hint of birdsong. "Gossip isn't going to destroy that-- but it does need to be considered. The people look to you as examples. So, it's a legitimate question-- have you spared much thought for the reaction when it inevitably spreads?"

Do they subtly shift closer to one another in their seats as it becomes clear that this part of the game is up? Or is that just Chrysanthe's imagination? Probably imagination. "Well, I'm not going to be like Deudelaphon about it-- she may have the temperament to make people love her regardless of whom she bestows that grace upon, but I do not. I can neither quell nor command rumour."

Hades dourly surveys the tray of delights, one finger hovering overtop the lot while he takes his time with the selection. "And yet we must," he says. "Not like Halmarut and Deudelaphon, no. I would have greater privacy than afforded by commanding the imagination so. But if we do _nothing_ then we have no hand in what anyone thinks. There is," he sighs, "_some_ merit to pre-empting rumours by simply ensuring that people know what we wish them to know." He selects one at last and pops it into his mouth; what treasure lies within is for him alone.

"And now you know the other reason why I turned the offer down," says Hythlodaeus, his grin returning. "I'd rather not have my entertainments be subjects for public discourse. But that's all that I'm getting at, really. Get on top of that now and you'll have much less to worry about later."

One more, Chrysanthe decides, and picks out another little sphere. It dissolves slowly in their mouth into a fine mist of late spring rain, the echo of violets upon the breeze. "_What_ entertainments? This halfway seems a ploy to get the two of us to kiss in public for your own amusement, which is almost as tame as simply not wanting the attention at all."

A little smoulder lights in Hythlodaeus' eyes as he lifts his glass. The damned grin broadens. "You're not the only one who guards their privacy. I simply have more leeway with which to do so. At the very least, consider a plan for when people start talking. You know they will."

Chrysanthe drains their wine and leans back in their seat, sighing. They glance to Hades. He's toying with another wafer-bauble, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. "Duly noted," he says, not bothering to veil the mounting irritation in his voice. "And something well worth it for the _two_ of us to discuss _in private_." He brings his finger to his thumb, bursting the delicate little bubble into fine powder.

Hythlodaeus tilts his head to Hades. "Of course, of course. Let it fall from our minds for the moment. Tell me, what did you both think of that instrument they brought out for the final piece? I was present to evaluate the initial concept, but I'd never heard it in ensemble before and that was-- not what I expected."

* * *

Their place is closer, so that's where they end up. Hades slouches in one corner of their their sofa; Chrysanthe sits perpendicular, supported by one of his arms as they lean back against him, cheek resting on his shoulder. Their hood falls halfway back, making something like a pillow for them. Even through the layers of robes, his and theirs, they can feel his warmth. 

A teapot sits on the coffee table nearby, all but forgotten. Chrysanthe reaches to brush the backs of their knuckles against Hades' face; subtly he leans into the gesture. Their hand turns to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing against the demarcation between mask and skin. 

Infinitely preferable to being the social butterflies their colleagues are. Just the quiet here, the two of them alone together. Chrysanthe lifts their hand and uses it to draw back his hood, letting the white hair fall loose and free. "Tell me what's bothering you," they say. Their voice falls quiet against the evening silence, removed from other noises of the world. 

The sigh Hades lets out is longer than any such sound he makes in public. There is a subtlety to its nature, winding and frustrated, limned with a gilt of _something_ that intensifies as he takes their other hand in his, thumb drifting over the back. "It's none of his business, nor anyone else's. The thought of anything else encroaching upon it..." He pulls them closer against his chest, a soft squeeze. 

Chrysanthe turns their hand over, laces fingers between his. "I think that may have been lost to us when we accepted our roles. If not tittering about you and I together, then contemplations about us individually. I don't want to make hermits of ourselves. Maybe just a show of being together. It's--" They sigh now too, a short, irritated puff of air. "It's not like we really have control over what people think anyway. There's always _been_ talk about you and I. It's never bothered us before, being seen together, being known as _friends._ And it's a matter of public record. Anyone could go and look at those forms we filled out._"_

_"You and I are not for public consumption."_ His voice is soft but intense, his hand gripping theirs tighter. "But it seems we will be consumed nonetheless." 

Chrysanthe tugs his head downward, stealing a kiss from his lips. "Funny how this rankles more than any actual duty of office. But let's not get too carried away. If we try and play socialite we'll just make ourselves miserable. Best just to be ourselves." They rest masks against each other, forehead to forehead, breath warming the other's face. "Irenaeus is presenting a paper on his latest work soon-- something to do with the unique structures of communication in flightless birds, as I understand it. There'll be a reception afterwards. I know it's not remotely your field, but will you escort me, dear Hades?"

They close their eyes; his face is too close to see. Instead they open their other senses, understanding rather than hearing all the subtle internal languages; the delicate play of all the aspects of the self. A dance through reticence and rapidly-fading annoyance into something new. They are not privy to his thoughts but, ah, they know him well enough to find the rippling echoes without a single word conveyed. 

Hades tilts his head; his tongue sweeps a taste of their lower lip. He rests his lips against theirs, stealing each breath they exhale. "If I _must_." The warmth in his voice belies the put-upon lilt he inflects upon the words. "Help me decide on a formal variant for the robes. You pay more attention to those approvals each season than I have in my entire life." 

They curl their fingers in his hair, then relax them, catlike, fingertips against his scalp dragging with each repeated motion. Chrysanthe pulls into a full seated position, sliding atop his lap, pressing their knees to his hips. Their hair spills over their shoulders, for the moment long and thick and rich amber, the warmth of the flame. "I'll help you choose," they say, kissing him again. "But you'll need to create them. I fear that I'll become lost contemplating what is to go _inside_ those robes. I have not your ironclad concentration." 

A low chuckle warms their lips with his breath. Then Hades' hand is in their hair, a knot close to their scalp. He pulls their head back and kisses the hollow of their throat, then again higher, moving upward to the underside of their chin. "Have I found the secret truth of why you are so fashion-forward? To cover for _mistakes?" _

"Oh, hush," Chrysanthe says, punctuating with a heavier kiss, one that pushes his head back. Their teeth tug at his lower lip; then their tongue darts into his mouth, silencing him far more thoroughly than words will. His arms curl tight around them, one hand at the small of their back, the other between their shoulders. They return their hand to his hair, catching their fingers in the silky mop. 

When the kiss breaks Hades' eyes dart up and down their face. The barest hint of strain touches his voice as he says, "If you stay where you are much longer, I--" He swallows, then kisses them again, far more lightly than the last. "At risk of spoiling a surprise, I'd hoped to make more of an occasion of it." 

Something lights in Chrysanthe's eyes. "Preying on my curiosity? So cruel." They ease off his lap, moving their next kiss to his cheek. "Those plans had better account for what I _do_ about that cruelty. I think that tea is a loss. Let me go put on another pot." 

Chrysanthe picks up the teapot and drifts off to go and pour the thoroughly stewed tea down the drain. "Are you going to stay over or will you be going home? I'll make something a little sleepier if you're staying." Extracting all the spent tea leaves is somewhat more work, but they get the job done and rinse out the pot. 

"I wouldn't choose to be anywhere else," says Hades, so Chrysanthe selects a delicate herbal; roses and lotus leaves with a background of brown rice. The kettle hisses at their touch. As an afterthought, once they fill the pot they sprinkle in generous pinches of chamomile.

Carrying the pot back to the table, they say, "You're more than welcome, of course. Even if you are a dreadful tease." 

He reaches for a book that he'd been reading earlier, a short collection of plays. "I seem to be teasing myself, too. Read with me instead? You would be a born Photine." 

Chrysanthe rejoins him on the couch, sitting beside him now. Hades shifts, holding the book more between them and draping his free arm around their shoulders. 

"The scene starts here?" 


	17. Dissolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an answer besides sacrifice.

The seas seem closer overhead when she returns to Amaurot. They rain softly onto the city, the cunningly-designed streets subtly angled to prevent puddles from gathering. Standing beside the brass-fitted aetheryte, Unfortunate shuts her eyes. Perversity rules her for a moment. She sticks out her tongue, like when she was a child and the first snows of autumn would drift from the sky. 

The droplet she catches tastes of salt. A shudder grips her shoulders. 

One foot in front of another. The Akadaemia first. The attendant lets her past, still seemingly unaware of the carnage she had waded through there. The limits of the image are so clear, when she knows where to look. 

She doesn't have the heart to force the edges of it, to distress even a representation of what had once been a person over ten thousand years ago. Just aether stretched over a form, but she doesn't want to--.

Instead she takes one final walk through the halls, looking for-- anything she can _understand._ Something more than promotional pamphlets or guides for prospective students. But the few books she finds are either in characters she can't decipher or entirely blank.

She runs her fingers over one of the actual books she finds, frowning. This is still the weakest part of the plan. She came-- so close the last time she was here, with the crystal and the robe. She'd been in no state at the time, of course, drowning in captured light. 

_Everything is here for a reason._ The thought aligns itself with precision in her mind. But clearly there's parts that are just window dressing-- books with no text, doors to nowhere, people who just don't respond to her. But how many of the details are significant? How much needed to be consciously thought of? 

How long had Emet-Selch been working on this city? Even a bit of distraction can taint the creation, that much she knows-- so how much is here by intent and how much through stray thoughts? What thoughts were causing the distractions? 

She finds she doesn't want to put the book down, devoid of meaning though it is for her. She carries it out with her, clutching it to her chest. 

"My, how unexpected. I never thought I would see you again." 

The impression of a voice startles Unfortunate into nearly dropping the book, but she corrects herself in time to see an Amaurotine figure approaching her. She hasn't gotten the hang of telling the sounds of their voices apart, so all she has is the Echo-driven intuition of meaning (would it _kill_ the Mother to give her something that works on written materials?). Still, there's only one time they've ever been approached in this place, rather than the other way around. "You're-- Hythlodaeus."

"You remembered," he says, a smile clearly on his lips. "And you-- you're walking alone now. But you are somewhat more, too. Have the two of you become one once again?" 

The reminder of Ardbert is an unexpected little thrust into her heart. She shuts her eyes. "Yes. It was necessary to survive." She forces her words to detachment, breathes, and resolves to move her thoughts on. Now is not the time. 

The shade of Hythlodaeus regards her for a moment, then says, "Yes. The shape of your soul is much cleaner now. And what is this done to patch the holes? Clever indeed. Did you do that yourself?" 

"Yes," says Unfortunate, "I did. Tell me, do you know anything about this book? I can't understand it." She holds it up for the robed figure to take and examine. 

He looks over the cover thoughtfully, then flips it open to a random page. Hythlodaeus chuckles. "Ah, this book. Since it's you, I feel I can be honest. Neither can I. That person's writings focused deeply on the words at the heart of the world. Fascinating, I'm sure. But too impractical even for me-- or even their own more day to day work." He returns the book to her. "And yet, I cannot be surprised to see it here. What meaning it holds for you now, however, I cannot say." 

"I see," says Unfortunate, exhaling. Well, it's not like she expected to find something to crack it all open at the last moment. "Well, thank you." Still, she has no desire to set this book aside, or leave it here.

"Wait a moment," says Hythlodaeus. "Surely this book was not your purpose here. What is? This city is no longer as safe or stable as it appears, now that Emet-Selch has left."

Unfortunate wets her lips. "Been killed. By me." 

A thoughtful hum emerges from the robed and masked figure. He bends, peering down at her. "Yes. I've seen that look in the eyes before. I suspect he thought it only just. After all, just because a process is cyclic, it does not mean that every time through it is the same. Equilibrium is the Law, but the weights are always moving about the scales."

Something deep inside of her cringes. "I'm here because," she says, then swallows tightly. She needs to change the subject to anything else. His own question then. "Because I'm going to bring him back."

"Hmhm," says Hythlodaeus, straightening; she sees nothing of his face now. "Why?"

She feels so disconnected from the words as they lock into place, leaving her mouth. Like she's speaking from somewhere else. "Because there are penances that he must serve, if I am to cure the suffering of a primal so ancient and powerful that it has might as well be a god." She wets her lips. "He went to great lengths to leave me the tools to understand that Zodiark is a tainted creation, which I do not think He wanted shared. If I am to unravel _that_, I... I cannot do it alone. And he must set his own wrongs aright." 

And Hythlodaeus begins to laugh. Unfortunate takes a step back, a flush rising unbidden to her cheeks. When he notices, the laugh stops abruptly. "Forgive me, my friend," he says. "I was simply reminded of something. But it was in poor taste of me. A game, where every player has a number, and sees all of those numbers, save their own." 

"I don't know, and I don't think I want to know," Unfortunate says, frowning. "I should--wait. You can see my soul. Can you see the remains of this one? Do I even have a hope of putting it together again?" She draws out a near-black crystal, holding it gingerly, as if the "net" she wove to hold the shards of Emet-Selch's soul were a physical thing, dangling from the stone. 

The next laugh Hythlodaeus makes shakes his entire body. "You? No." 

And all the air leaves her at once. "Ah," she says, and starts to speak, but Hythlodaeus waves to cut her off. 

"So I will offer you the use of the eyes you will need to do so. Come. We must find a place where the-- Lifestream, I think you call it now-- is at its thickest." 

He strides off. Unfortunate follows, scrabbling through her bags for the small aetherial lamp she brought along with her. 

* * *

"Right, so the plan is to put the soul back together, then hold onto it while I create a form for it to go into, then turn it loose and I want to say it _should_ go into the body?" Unfortunate hastily wipes the crumbs of a sandwich away, crumpling waxed paper back into her bag as Hythlodaeus examines the Allagan equipment she brought. 

He'd led her to an empty building, finding a spot in a bare room some dozen floors up. The lamp that had served in Rak'tika agreed with the assessment, shining brightly here. "You're more ambitious than they were. I wonder what else has changed? But you do not seem to have very strong a potential at all..." He passes her the frequency modulator after some time frowning and concentrating at it.

The device is smaller than she expected; two slim dials that protruding from a sleek curved body less than an ilm square; a tiny lens disturbs one edge. She sets the device against her spectacles, the lens oriented to project across them. Faint protrusions on the back hook onto the arm and glass edge of the glasses, gripping tightly. She turns her head from side to side to make sure it's secure; it stays put until she actually reaches up to twist it loose. She puts it back into place. "I thought-- I thought I'd draw from this place. Since none of the creation is natural, I thought it should be safer than elsewhere. I read some tricks for minimizing the atherial drain, but I'm also hoping that since I'm just working on so much smaller a scale than a primal it won't be catastrophic. I, uh, figure if I make some mistakes in how I actually put things together, so long as it all, you know works, it should be okay. Since I know he can fix things himself."

"... Much more ambitious," Hythlodaeus murmurs, and Unfortunate really isn't sure that's a compliment at all. "Have you ever successfully created anything?"

Unfortunate finds a small button on the edge of the modulator and presses it. A light flashes across her spectacles, bright enough to force her to close her eyes for a moment. She feels aetherial ties extend from the little thing; she takes hold of each one with personal aether. "Not as such," she admits. Opening her eyes, she can see projected across her spectacles webs of light, mapping to what she can _feel_ in the air. A moment more, and those webs sink through her glasses, merging delicately with her own natural vision. She shuts her eyes; the aetherial projection grows brighter, until she concentrates on dimming the glow. Only then do they fade from sight. "I think I got the idea of how the first time I came here, though."

Hythlodaeus presses two fingers to the forehead of his mask. "The act which drew my attention to you in the first place. Were you aware that had you not stopped when you did, you would not have survived?"

She frowns, taking up the spindler. This one should be simple-- she finds a likely spot nearby but out of the way, sets it down, and turns it on. A few moments puzzling out the menus until she has the aspecting right, then she engages it. The device whirrs quietly as it begins pulling aether close, drawing it fine and thin, winding it into a delicate thread. "That's nonsense. I would have..."

"Blown out that crystal you use for filtering," Hythlodaeus says cheerfully. "Which surely would be a remarkable feat to come from a weakened soul. But not productive." He raps his knuckles against the wall and says, "Nor would it be wise to draw solely on the aether that comprises this place-- for it is nothing _but_ aether. You need somewhere to stand, if you are to move the world."

The thimble amplifier slides onto her thumb, the nail trimmed down girlfriend-short. A moment to engage it and it spreads like a web over her left hand. She flexes it, plucks her fingers at strings of aether the modulator illuminates for her, far finer than she could manipulate on her own. They quiver like harpstrings. "And yet, I do not see you urging me to _stop_."

A strangely thoughtful laugh emerges from the Amaurotine shade. "No. I simply recommend another source of power. It can wait until the first task is done. Thread your needle, my friend."

She frowns, but does pick up the slim crystal rod, shaped to a needle-point at one end. She looses one end of the thread of aether from the spindle, loosely coiling it around the fat end of the rod. Unfortunate wets her lips, pausing for only a moment before reaching with her right hand, to take up the dark soul crystal. Hythlodaeus takes it from her; it's tiny in his palm. The hairs on the back of her arms rise, just feeling another entity handling it, shade though he may be.

"Clever of you to tie the remains to this," comments Hythlodaeus idly, stroking the crystal. She shivers, feeling it in her spine. But he doesn't seem to notice; he loosens the aetherial net she has holding the myriad-sharded soul. He stirs a finger around in the air. "Ah. Start here."

Unfortunate shuts her eyes, letting the modulator alone guide her. There's something where he indicates that she can vaguely perceive. The needle she moves to her right hand; with her left she reaches, feeling the air. Her augmented gaze can only see the vaguest of impressions in the air; her thumb vaguely feels the edge.

"Very good. Try this piece."

She feels something press to where she is holding what can only be a tiny flake of soul. Fitting against the bit she has. With needle and thread of fine astral aether, she tacks the two pieces together, or hopes she does.

It seemed easier, doing this in the heat of the moment, on herself, somehow. She leans back and lets the aether catch her, mentally connecting everything around her into a more harmonious pattern. Hythlodaeus supplies another piece; she stitches them together, humming two notes in the back of her nose.

Unfortunate works blind, save for aetherlight, falling into trance; she gets a better sense of _how_ to perceive what's being shown her as she falls into Mhachi, organizes her thoughts into their peculiar framings. She reinforces her stitches as the construction grows, threads vanishing as they snug into place.

Hythlodaeus' voice becomes more distant as she sinks deeper into the flow of construction, and she finds she no longer thinks in words at all as she works, not as she knows them. She hums, sounding out the edges of pieces, the reverberation telling her where negative space ends. More like fitting a broken vase back together, for all that her chosen metaphor here is thread.

She echolocates a strangely-shaped piece that she _knows_ fits into the work she's already assembled, but it's too smooth on the edges. Her lips part, and words slide from her throat. "N҉̶̵̡̛͞͞o̵̴̡̨͟͢͜͟w͘͝҉̵̨̛̛͜,̴̢͟͠҉̶̢ ̸̴͜͝҉̴̵͜w̸̨͟͟͡͠͞h̶̷̛͜͢͞͞e̵̶̷̢͜͟͜͝ŗ̸̶̛͜͞͡e̷̸̢̢͟͟͝͡ ̡̕͢͞҉d̷̨̛͢͡͝͡͠o̧̡͘͝͞ ̷҉̛͘͢͜͠͝y̴̶̸͘͜͠o̴̡̨̢̕͘͢͜u҉̴̸̷̶̨͘̕ ̷̴̡̡̨͢͝͡b̶̷̢̢͟҉҉̧ȩ̴̧̧̧͘͟͠l̡̛͘̕̕͡ǫ̷̴̸͜҉̡n̸̵̷̴̸͟͡g҉̶̶̧̧̡̛͝?̷̴̵̡̡̕͟͡"

Here, she understands, here, tucked into this little knot of joy that stands as an island in a mire of sorrows. She builds upward, threading exhaustion to determination, doubt and resolve joined as one into pockets that she stuffs with strange, familiar-unfamiliar little quirks. She croons words she does not understand at the soul spreading out before her, and she intuits the answers, learning from the shattered bits themselves where they belong.

At times she feels a hand shift hers just so, correcting her work, but eventually Hythlodaeus simply holds the ever-growing construction, letting it 'drape' across his arms, holding it for her.

Time does not exist as she works: there is nothing but the work, she a part of this web as much as anything else. The city could crumble around her and she would know nothing, feel nothing, hear nothing.

It is not like her own soul, split and bent apart, in need of patches. A question starts to intrude on her concentration; she swats it aside and asks the miniscule piece of soul against her fingertip where it belongs. This soul, gathered together, forms a coherent whole. With watchmaker's precision, she fits it into barely-there gap, tacks it down, and then reinforces. 

There's so _much_ of it, going in so many directions. She barely pauses to drink her water, before her throat becomes so parched that it distracts her. But she cannot stop, does not stop, she hears the voice of his soul and speaks to it directly, coaxing it into compliance.

Getting close to the end now. Using thread alone she crafts little loops, hooks for the Lifestream. She hears a vague, approving noise as she ties those loops into the soul, and Hythlodaeus finely twists-- something she can't perceive, doesn't need to perceive into those hooks. One by one they grow taut.

She draws tethers from the soul to the crystal, holding it down as it becomes clear that there is need. It billows through the room, through _her_, brushing the astral aether she used to repair her own soul and _resonating_.

"I think that's all of it," she hears herself say, in Eorzean. She holds aether loosely, still feeling the deep tongues; there is still work yet to be done.

"Hm," comes the answer. Hythlodaeus feels through the soul, looking at it in ways she cannot. "I believe so. But this is not all the work to be done."

Unfortunate ties off her threads and disengages the spindler with a barely-conscious thought. She sets the needle down. "A body."

"A source of power." A faintly nervous thrill runs though his voice; it sings out to Unfortunate's ears, as she is now. A tingle runs through the air. "I pray you, do not reject this gift."

The aetherial surge she feels is one of _dissolution_; she snaps to her feet, bolting for the Amaurotine shade. "What are you--?"

Hythlodaeus fades at the edges, from normal sight anyway; he grows so bright when seen with the modulator. The strain of his voice breaks into a laugh. "If you fail, I and everything here will fade anyway. The edges of my existence already fray. Besides, I was always curious--"

"No!" She extends her fingers, pressing them against his cuffs, as if that will somehow press the unraveling aether back together. "Just because you're a, a _construct_, that doesn't mean--"

"Hush," says Hythlodaeus, voice warbling as it comes apart. "That debate never had an answer I liked, not from either of you. This is because I was a coward once. Let a memory of me become brave."

All of the aether that comprises the shade is coming _loose_, easy for her to perceive, easy for her to just reach in and take, but, "I cannot! I will not! There is an answer _besides_ sacrifice!"

He cannot even be seen anymore with normal sight. Just aether now, still loosely aligned in his shape. "I have hope that you will find that answer. Someday. But not today. Do not waste this, c--"

Then there is only aether remaining. Biting back frustration-- biting back _rage_\-- Unfortunate sinks her left hand into it, feeling the aether play over her hand, tickling the amplifier on her thumb.

She doesn't even need to _think_ about it. Bones and organs that seem to know themselves how to fit together, arms and legs, hands, fingers, feet, toes. The broad strokes, and then the details, so many of which she doesn't even know, and just applies as they feel _right_. "L̡͜͠҉̛͢i̶̶̸̵̡͝k̸̶͜͞͠͝e̶̷̡̨̛͜͝ ̵̡͘͟͝҉t̵̶͜͜͞ḩ̸̛͘͘̕͠i̷̸̧̛͢͜͝s̡̨̢̛͡͞͠?̶̡̢̧̧̛͡" she hisses at the aether, a question-not-a-question as she brushes fingernails into place.

There's a lot here, but she _knows_ what a body is like. She uses the one she was acquainted with as a guideline, but she hardly knew much of what was going on underneath the outfit. Eyelids, eyelashes. The little hairs inside of the nose. The hand both warm and cold even through a glove.

She weaves the shade of Hythlodaeus' surrendered aether swiftly, expediently, drawing it into the shape she crafts.

It is very nearly instinctive.

So intent is she on the work that her only thoughts when the form breathes, the pulse beats, the eyes follow the movement of her fingers-- her only thoughts are to adjust and make corrections. There is nothing unsettling about the soulless body assembling before her.

This is how a body _is_. She murmurs things under her breath as she guides aether to shape the more ineffable qualities than the physical. Aetherial conduits, a hollow for the soul to nestle.

It feels like it shouldn't be easier than putting a soul together, but it _is_. It's just a body. She sees them all the time. Lives in one, even. The gifted aether moves easily at her will, with none of the strain of routing it via a crystal through her own body. She stuffs it into the form like puffing up a child's toy. Does she need to do anything else? Nothing else comes to mind.

She winds the aetherial tethers on Emet-Selch's soul around her hand, holding it steady. Neatly, she severs the ties to the little black crystal.

One breath. Two. She swings her hand a little, building up a bit of momentum on the soul.

She lets go.

The moment she loses contact with it, it fades from her perception. She moves her lips, but no sound comes out. Or does it? There's a rush of air in her ears. She sinks to her knees beside the form. Is it working? Is the soul filling the vacuum she has created? A wave of dizziness strikes her.

She feels the ground under her cheek now. Her breath shakes. In a language she could swear she doesn't know, she begs in the moments before everything goes dark, "Please."


	18. The Perpetuity of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

There is only silence, endless and majestic. Thoughtless. Painless. Selfless. An eternity of freedom, the only freedoms that could ever matter. Freedom from sorrow and suffering and flesh and ties, an anti-existence that would be admirable, were there anything that could admire.

But there is no such thing as eternity. Aeon does not quite become instant, but it shatters into a turmoil of noise all the same.

There is _noise_ in the _silence_. It urges, demands, insists. No, no more. Has not enough been given? There is nothing more to give.

It is _over_.

There is screaming in the silence. Commanding, pleading, compelling. There is nothing with which to obey.

No more. An ending.

There is sobbing in the silence. Petty, pathetic, needy. A desperate begging. There is nothing to be moved.

This, an ending to all things. Let there be only silence.

There are words in the silence. Flowing from one point to another in a place where there are no points. A physical insertion into an absence of physicality. Intruding. Inescapable.

Please, no more. Let there be nothing else. _Please._

There is a _voice_ in the silence, sure and yet unsure. It is familiar and it is unfamiliar and it is so very alone.

It is not a voice that he knows, but there is a him to be aware of that fact.

The words twist cruelly, insisting on _being._ Violating the sanctity of this nothingness until it is prised apart, an eggshell cracked open from the outside. Sharp edges thrust inward, albumen seeping forth.

There is no refuge in that metaphor. There is no refuge in this thing that is now a place where once it was nothing at all.

He is scooped forth, like a yolk meant for custard.

One breath. Two. Rebellion at the notion. Reflex: a third breath. Sound everywhere: subtle. Distant. Yet still an agony of insistence that this is real.

Cold. He's _cold_. Ground exists beneath him, unyielding and frigid.

Maybe if he doesn't open his eyes, this will turn out to be a dream.

He of all people knows that you don't dream yourself out of _death._

Fingers, toes. He wriggles them tentatively. Stiff, from disuse, or simply not having quite enough give. But they move at his command.

This is not like any body he has ever inhabited before. A slightly misshapen rib stifles his breath. Instinctively, he draws up his own aether. It feels strange; what he takes in 'hand' is not as it should be. There's a dusting of fire atop his darkness and there are too many little spikes of the umbral dotted throughout, pinning the power down in place.

It hurts, relocating the bone, shifting it into the right angle. But it always does.

There's no more putting it off. He opens his eyes. Reflexively, he focuses on the flow of aether and sees-- his own work, his own memory given form. _His_ Amaurot once more. Dense layering of aether to simulate something that resembles the way it ought to be-- even if only a little bit. But it's fraying at the edges, coming loose from lack of maintenance.

A shuddering breath beside him distracts him from contemplating the work.

Stiffly he turns his head, and feels a frown curl his lips. He should have known.

The massive roegadyn woman lies cheek-down on the floor, glasses in disarray, one lens against her forehead. Her ash-white skin is still more pallid than before, slickened with the faint sweat of effort. Her unruly white hair is a tangled mess, that selfsame sweat clinging it to her scalp.

Damn her. Damn the Warrior of Light.

His mouth is dry as dust, as if it's never known water. He spies a bottle on the ground nearby; he reaches for it. Smells like water, and the layers of lipstick against the rim suggest the same. He takes a deep draught; the lukewarm water feels cold as snow against his parched throat.

She stirs wheh he puts the bottle down, rubbing her forehead, setting her glasses back to rights.

"It seems that a little dignity was too much to ask for," he says acidly, lifting a hand to gesture at this bare, fleshy form. "What did you _do_?"

The Warrior frowns. She coughs and wheezes as she tries to sit up, then stops, resting her forehead on the ground. Another moment to plant her hands on the floor. She slowly forces herself upwards and drops heavily onto her haunches. Then, without a word, she undoes her jet-black coat, thick fingers stumbling on a myriad of hooks and straps. She tosses it to him; it lands in a heavy heap on his prone form. Stiffly, he sits, pulling the too-large coat over his shoulders.

If this is her idea of dignity...

"I," she says, and stops entirely. She frowns, entire face locking into a concerted brood. "I put your soul back together. Then I created a body for it." She sounds too distant for it to be matter-of-fact, but she shows no sign of elaborating further.

He needs elaboration. "You _what?"_ Despite himself, his voice goes high, possibly even hysterical. No sundered being should have the _knowledge_ to do even a fraction of that, to say nothing of the power. No wonder parts feel subtly off, or that it's so much more effort to even move.

She looks away from him, fingers flexing; he notices a device on one of her thumbs. Allagan make? "I caught your soul. I managed to do some repair work on mine while we fought. I'm told it's holding. Purging the light was all well and good but it blew out _holes_ everywhere. So I... fixed it. Patched it as best as I could. I figured I could do it again. And, I mean, it wasn't really the same, mine was like-- catching aether and sewing it in, yours was glueing a vase back together. But, I mean, I figured it would work if I could get enough of your soul back together. I dug up some old Allagan notes about how Xande was done. I, uh. I think they were yours, actually."

He presses his hand to his face, middle finger resting against his third eye. "Mine, really...?" But curious as he is to know how she pulled _that_ one off, it ranks a dim second compared to the mounting horror that his very re-existence is the product of _amateur surgery_. Even to his own ears, he sounds faint as he says, "Could you even _see_ what you were doing?"

"Kind of?" She unhooks something from her spectacles and tosses it to him. It hits him lightly in the chest; he has to pick it up. So the reflexes are shot. That's fine. That's _fine_. Not that it takes reflex to recognize a prototype variable-frequency aether modulator calibrated for visual enhancement. Which is not _nearly_ sensitive enough to pick up on a soul in that level of detail. By the way she melts about the shoulders at the look he fixes her, she knows that. She still reaffixes it to her lenses when he throws it back to her. "I, I had help. And I didn't really need to see what I was doing. I don't know what I was saying, but it seemed to listen to me. Your soul... told me itself where everything belonged. That's the best way I know of to put it-- it conveyed something to me, and I intuited the meaning." 

Well, that's patently impossible. He's known maybe a handful of people in his life with that particular gift of understanding-- about as rare as his extreme affinity to view aetherflows, all told-- and precisely one with the sensitivity to perceive the language of a soul. And _that_ person... no. Absolutely not. They had had better _sense_ than that. No, the more likely answer: "Help. What sort of _help_ could you possibly come by?"

This strikes her somehow; she breaks eye contact and looks away. "It was... a shade," she says softly. She takes off her glasses and rubs them on her sleeve. "He said his name was Hythlodaeus. That he'd been a friend of yours, once. He seemed to know me..."

It hits him like a slap to the face. That, too, is impossible. None of the shades he created should have been able to _conceive_ of such a thing. He couldn't have been so distracted... could he have? He crosses his arms over his chest, coat draping loosely overtop. "Well then, where is he? Any words I have for you should no doubt be shared with your _accomplice_ as well."

"About that." The Warrior's voice grows softer still. He's seen her show a number of moods by now, most of them states of disarray of some sort. But what's this one? Shame? That's new. "When it came to creating the body-- I was going to use, I don't know, the local aether. Since what's here isn't actually the land. He said something like that would unravel the floor under my feet. That what I'd tried to do the last time I tried to make something would probably have killed me. So." She looks down at her hands. "He said that if this didn't work, he didn't have much time anyway. That he-- that he wanted to be brave for once. He surrendered the aether that wove him. And I... _I didn't know how to stop him_. So, I. I used it."

Maybe he should feel more than a twinge at hearing such a thing. But no matter what oddities may have come with his creation, he _was_ only a construct. It wouldn't be much of an Amaurot without a Hythlodaeus in it, smugging the place up. So of course it was important to make him. But that was just a ghost, formed of aether. His own aether, if he's being precise. It's regrettable, certainly. Maybe even a little sad. But more importantly, "Ah. So this body is your... very first creation. Your only other attempt was potentially fatal. You literally played reassembling a soul by ear. You didn't know how to prevent a shade from disassembling itself into its component aether. And you didn't even think to visit a graveyard to find some freshly vacated corpse (assuming you consider yourself above murder) to use for your... amateur necromancy. Is there anything at all, _dear_ hero, that you actually know how to do?"

That same shame wars with a spike of arrogance as she says, "I told you. I'm an intuitive learner."

"That just means you make everything up as you go along," Emet-Selch hisses. "Whatever _possessed_ you to attempt such a mad scheme? I was _dead_! You'd _won_! No one _you_ care about will ever thank you for teaching yourself to resurrect a dead Ascian."

The Warrior of both Light and Darkness frowns at this, then reaches for the bottle of water. She takes a long, long swig and looks down at it after. "I figured out what it is," she says quietly. "Something about Zodiark that Hydaelyn would fight for. You were right, that I didn't really need you to tell me."

Emet-Selch lets out his breath in a long, slow hiss. "All of this, just for that?"

"I'm going to need help."

He hunches deeper into the borrowed coat, pressing his face into one hand. "Torn from sweet oblivion's grace-- for this. Well then. Now what? I assume you're going to march me back to some cell somewhere, or find some charmingly moral way to bind me to your captivity."

The answering smile is a little bit rueful. "No. You're free to go."

"I-- what?" He rocks back a little. The woman is absolutely mad; that's the only natural conclusion to be taken from any of this.

She shrugs. "If I did it right, there's no force that _I_ can bring to bear which will be able to confine you. If I did it wrong, well. I'm going to assume I didn't. You should probably see if you're able to make yourself some clothes before you go anywhere, though. I assume that's trivial. I just, you know, that seemed a little less important to work out how to do..." She rubs the back of her head with one hand, a little flush colouring her cheeks. "I tried to get everything accurate as I could, but I only ever saw so much. I assumed you'd be able to fix anything you didn't like."

Emet-Selch sighs. As if 'didn't like' could hope to be the extent of his objections to this slipshod construction. Of course, he could discard it just as easily and reshape a new host. But, no. That seems like a lot more effort, and if being roused from sleep is exhausting, then being roused from _death_, well. He reaches for the water once more; the Warrior stirs as if to object, but evidently thinks better of it. "Very well," he says. "Let us attempt this small test of your work, such as it is."

Gingerly, he rises to his feet, not entirely convinced that his legs are well-built enough to hold him. But he stands, and everything seems proportioned... more or less correctly. The Warrior stands as well, her intensely blue (and yet, somehow darker than before?) soul quivering with something like worry. Never mind the colour; she cannot be them. _They_ were never good enough at creation to attempt such a ludicrous task (-- but, that person had _known better_ than to attempt such a thing. This mewling child of a sorceress has no such knowledge to instill caution).

He shrugs away the coat and holds it out for her. She takes it, clutching it by the collar in her hands. For safety's sake, even though he works to a concept he knows backwards and forwards, he builds one piece at a time, layer by layer. Underthings, socks, boots, under-skirts, robes, gloves, under-coat, scarf, coat. Earring. So far so good. There's a strange tug to his aether as he works, but nothing that impedes him. The Warrior watches, cocking her head, a frown of intense concentration fixing her face. Strange-- he can sense that the modulator on her glasses has been engaged, but the faint, omnipresent aetherial whine that had threatened to drive him mad when creating the thing (and indeed kept the device from wider production) is nowhere to be heard.

"Well, that's as it should be," he allows, tugging everything into place.

"Good," says the bedamned hero who ruined his death. "That's good. There is one thing. I'd thought it best to perhaps arrange a meeting in advance. Elidibus is expecting you." Another smile, one that falls short of her eyes, not for falsity's sake but for sheer lack of mirth.

He rests his forehead in his palm. "E-Elidibus. You contacted Elidibus. _How?_ Why, even?"

The laugh she makes is all of a sudden more relaxed. The Warrior says, "He's planted a spy in the Scions. We know he's a spy. He knows we know he's a spy. It's all very civilized. Elidibus doesn't know that it's you he's expecting, mind. Just tell him that you're the message I promised. As for why, well, two reasons. One-- I don't know, maybe there is someone better out there who can check my work, but he was my best guess for it. Two-- I'm going to assume you weren't lying when you said you were looking for the allyship of a Warrior who has the power to contain and control the light of five Wardens. Well, I may not have been that when I took in the fifth, but I am that now. I think it's time that we all talked for real, don't you?"

"Perhaps," says Emet-Selch, looking up to the Warrior's face. The expression is guarded, but she's a poor guard; the look of nerves to her eyes and set of her mouth is clear. He really doesn't care to bother with whatever else might be troubling her. His own state is poor enough. But he had might as well indulge this, if for no other reason than so that he can regain his bearings. "Then I won't give him further cause to worry. I assume that you'll be hearing from me-- or from him-- in due course."

"Yes, that's fine," says the Warrior, her head snapping up as he startles her from some other rambling thought.

He extends a short, mocking bow to her, and without one further word, he swirls aether around him like a cloak with a single taut thread and departs.


	19. What Needs no Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are young, and so very much in love, and nothing will ever end this moment.

For all that Chrysanthe is rapt as their old mentor explains a peculiar set of phonemic markers expressed only by certain species of flightless birds, they're acutely aware of the complete and utter boredom radiating from beside them. They glance over at Hades, catch him slumping in his seat, arms crossed in front of his chest. He doesn't seem to notice their attention and with the angle they can't catch his eyes through his mask.

Well, they don't expect him to be _enthralled_, no, but they'd like if he'd at least pretend. Even though they've always appreciated that he _doesn't_.

All right, fine, it's a technical talk on a subject he doesn't actually _know_ anything about and he didn't complain _once_ about coming along. They touch his arm upper arm lightly, giving it a little squeeze. He lifts his head, glancing at them, and makes a little shrug. It's not very apologetic.

They raise their hand when Irenaeus opens the floor up for questions, but their query is relatively basic. Phonology isn't exactly their specialty. Still, having all of these sounds and gestures documented can only be a net good. It is an obligation to seek meaning from all beings to create the best possible world. At least, according to their own arguments, it is.

The reception afterward isn't too far away; Chrysanthe takes a moment en route to steer Hades a little ways off. "Is everything...?"

"You know that I'm not very interested in the subject," he says. "So long as no one expects me to be insightful, all will be well." Hades slides a hand into his hood, pressing a fall of hair away from his eyes, tucking it behind the edge of his mask to keep it in place.

Chrysanthe leans up and pushes his hood aside just enough to kiss his cheek. "Just sparkle on my arm. I appreciate you tolerating the lecture for me."

Taking their hand, Hades says, "You don't need me to shine. But I enjoy the sight of it regardless. Doubtless there'll be something yet to come on the minutiae of conceptualization that I can bore you with at a later date."

So they arrive, fashionably late but undoubtedly Together in a way beyond work colleagues or even old school friends who keep in touch. With the distinct red masks, it's hard to avoid at least some scrutiny, even if people have mostly already split themselves off to discuss matters of interest amongst themselves. At least it's that sort of reception, with drinks and thoughtful conversation, and not, perish the thought, dancing.

Hades leaves them to go fetch drinks, giving Chrysanthe the space to survey the little knots of people, trying to determine which conversations to encroach upon. Irenaeus needs congratulations on the publication, of course, but he's clearly surrounded. That can wait, then. Perhaps--

"Ah, there you are. I was wondering when I didn't see you at first. Is that our beloved Emet-Selch I spy over there? You came together, then?"

Chrysanthe takes half a step back, jarred by the sudden intrusion into their thoughts. They turn, and find themself face to face with the easiest man in all of Amaurot to identify. "Elidibus. I must have missed you during the lecture-- how did you find it?"

He waggles a hand in the air. "I'm certain it's very groundbreaking work," says the Emissary, "but it's not quite what I was expecting. I was hoping for something more applicable to my work-- this was a little esoteric for me."

"A fair assessment, I suppose," says Chrysanthe. "I can extrapolate easily enough, but it's related to my field. Lower-level, but I certainly tested well enough with all of this." They shrug. "I think it's going to be fairly foundational work for the both of us, however, once there's enough time for the discoveries to percolate through. A greater diversity of communication possibilities allows greater outreach. And the more that I'm able to connect with, the better I can harmonize the newly discovered needs with that of society."

Elidibus nods thoughtfully. "Of course. That's the reason I keep on top of developments like this in the first place-- to watch the grinding of a new cutting edge. There's no need for me to know how it is done for me to appreciate the craft."

From behind them, they feel Hades lift their hand before pressing a glass into it. "Elidibus," he says politely, and then absolutely nothing else.

"Ah, Emet-Selch," says Elidibus, waving his own drink lightly in the air. "Azem here and I were just discussing the potential implications of the work presented today. What do you think?"

Hades makes a noncommittal noise and lifts his drink to cover for it. "I haven't the background to say for certain," he says. "I struggle to even see the point of devoting the energy to such creatures, but if this will lead to further innovation... I trust your expertise in the matter."

Elidibus chuckles and glances sidelong at Chrysanthe. "You're a good influence. You'll civilize him yet." Hades' affronted 'hmph' is nearly lost in Chrysanthe's laugh.

The evening passes-- mostly uneventfully, mostly pleasantly. At some point Hades manages to find a conversation partner more interested in creations than words, and Chrysanthe catches up with people they haven't seriously chatted with since their days at the Akadaemia. They do a fair bit of remembering why not, but that's beside the point.

Eventually, they both hit their wall on being able to tolerate the presence of other people. A few others have already filtered off, so it isn't like it would be rude to leave at this point. They find a spot off to the side together, and Chrysanthe asks, "Should we go? I think I'm done. It's a nice night-- we could take a walk, enjoy the quiet."

Hades tilts his head downward, looking at Chrysanthe for a long moment. Then he leans just a shade closer and murmurs into their hood, "Come home with me."

It sends a thrill down their back, his breath on their cheek, the words softly carrying to their ear. "Is this your 'occasion'?" they ask, gaze settling on his eyes through the mask.

"Perhaps," he says, his hand finding theirs. "I've been working on a gift. Now seems as good a time as any to offer it to you. Will you come?"

They lace their fingers through his. All of a sudden their throat is dry, heart pounding like a schoolchild's. "Yes," says Chrysanthe. "I will."

* * *

Hades' couch feels unfamiliar beneath them, despite having sat on it countless times; slept on it nearly as often, even. They clutch their half-full coffee cup-- gulped to that level in one frantic go-- with a conscious ferocity, as if they'll forget about it entirely and drop it if they stop thinking about it.

Nervous isn't the right word for it. That would suggest worry, or some sort of concern. No, they're-- is it excited? Really? Like a taut weighted string, twisted and twisted and held in place, awaiting that release of stored elastic energy.

They've been restraining themself for a long time. So too, they suspect, has Hades been.

He returns from the small room he has set aside for a study, a palm-sized box held in one hand. "Here," he says, sitting beside them. Hades holds out the box; it gives away nothing about its contents. They set aside their coffee cup and take the box in hand; it barely has any weight to it at all.

Chrysanthe takes a moment to find where it opens, lightly twisting the sides until it splits into two distinct halves. Inside, on a bed of puffy white material, lies a bangle of translucent red crystal. Carnelian, perhaps. Surrounding it are vinelike curlicues of the same stone, seemingly unconnected. They lift the bracelet, pinching it gently between two fingers; the vines rise with it, held in place by nothing other than clarity of concept. "It's beautiful," they say softly.

"It's an indulgence," says Hades self-consciously, looking away from them for a moment. "It resonates with the surrounding aether, acting as a sort of mobile ley line net. A small thing to protect you on your travels. But truly, the colour put me in mind of your eyes."

"_Oh_," says Chrysanthe softly, "That's-- and right after I just made you bore yourself half to death."

Hades takes their left hand and the bracelet. It expands briefly to fit over their hand, then contracts to securely encircle their wrist. He tilts it just so, and the bangle stands upright, drifting in a lazy orbit half an ilm from their skin. "You'll make that up to me in due time. _This_ is a gift. You owe me nothing for it. There. What do you think of it?"

They lift their hand and watch the vines circle the bracelet for a few moments; it stops when they pinch it, and run their thumb over the cool stone. "I've never seen anything like it before. I-- don't even know what to say. Thank you." So they wrap their arm around his shoulders and lean up, kissing him full on the lips.

He leans them back a little, turning them so the arm of the sofa presses against the small of their back. His breath warm on their face, he pauses as if about to say something, but instead drifts a hand up, fingers tracing their cheek lightly. He glides his hand around the back of their head and pushes their hood back from the inside. Their hair is still warm gold, autumn sunlight through leaves. It spills loosely down past their shoulders; his fingers catch the soft fall and drift through it silkily.

"I've been thinking," he says onto their lips, hand pausing in their hair, against their head. "About how you mean to revenge yourself upon me for the cruelty of demanding _patience_." His fingers curl tightly, pulling firmly at their hair. Not very hard-- a test, a tease, feeling them out. "And it occurred that if you intend to seek it, I had might as well do something worthy of that revenge."

Chrysanthe presses their knuckles to his cheek, backs of their nails pressing flat against his jaw. "Do you seek permission to be cruel to me?" they ask, giving his lip a quick little bite. "What would you have me call out, if somehow I find you _too_ cruel? How shall you beg me to stop, if need be?"

Hades pulls harder at their hair, presses a short, fierce kiss to their lips. "Let's go with-- 'sunrise'. And if somehow, by chance, you find yourself in need but unable to speak...?" With his free hand he cups their cheek with his palm, setting two fingers against the edge of their mask.

"You _have_ been planning," says Chrysanthe. They slide their teeth over their lower lip, feel his breath upon their face. They spare a moment's concentration, and a small burst of blue light appears not far away; it explodes into a shower of sparks. "Will that suffice? You'd need to outright incapacitate me to keep me from doing that. I assume you didn't have _that_ much in mind. Not, mm, not yet, anyway."

He smiles-- only halfway, of course, but the other half of his mouth pulls up just a little bit too. "Whatever kept us apart for so long?" He removes his hand from their hair and passes it in front of their eyes; night falls in its wake. Chrysanthe makes a startled murmur, but remains focused on his other hand, the one on their cheek, the one poised against their mask.

Then, slowly, he lifts their mask; blinded they can't help but be aware of the cool touch of air on exposed skin. Then his fingers, brushing over the not-quite-dampness of their forehead, around their eyes. The kiss comes after, sweet and not long enough. He eases back, takes their hand, helps them to their feet. They feel a little smile of their own take their lips, as they rub the small of their back, finally freed of that couch-arm.

Guided by Hades' hands, they follow him from the living room. The hairs on their arms stand on end when he walks them through a door, hears the sound of it being kicked shut behind the two of them. He presses them back up against it, gathering fistfuls of their robes. They brush the back of his hand with their fingers, trailing up into his sleeve.

"Hm, no," says Hades. "Let's get those out of the way for now. _Patience_." Aetherial wisps curl around their wrist, pulling it away and upward, holding their arm above their head; the other wrist follows. They wriggle their fingers, pull their hands, tug at those aetherial bonds. They're soft and not tight; they can turn their wrists easily, but they allow no more movement than that. Hades presses his lips against their neck; they can feel him smile.

He turns his attention back to their robes, running his hands up their sides through it. "What am I going to find under here...?"

Chrysanthe runs their teeth over their lower lip, taking a breath. "Is there something you're hoping for?"

Fingers brush the robe's closures. "No. Just you." He parts the robe, lets it fall open, held only in place by Chysanthe's back against the door and the puddled sleeves on their shoulders. They hear the slow intake of his breath, building along with the flush to their cheeks. Their eyes dart around, as if they might possibly see anything through the darkness Hades imposed, but no. They have only those subtle sounds: his breath, faint murmurations in the back of his throat; his touch on their bared skin. His hands drag up their stomach, brush their chest. He feels his way up to the tight cloth band that restrains their breasts, presses his hands flat overtop them.

They feel their nipples strain through the thick cloth to meet the palm of his hand, as if they've never felt the touch of another's hand before. It's been a while, certainly-- too long, and they've carried anticipation for this moment to their bed more than once. But he's barely touched them. Chrysanthe tugs their wrists some more, futilely; the aetherial ties are unyielding.

He must be able to feel them too, the way he works his palms in small tight circles until their breath hitches. Hades leans in, while his hands move, sliding around back to start unwinding that cloth. In their ear, he breathes, "You've been imagining this."

"Yes," says Chrysanthe, a faint tremor of anticipation running through their body when the cloth comes loose. "Yes." Hades frees their breasts, draws over them with fingertips alone. Still sore from being held down so tightly, his touch upon them is _maddening_. "Yes," they repeat one last time, faintly.

Fingers slide away, replaced by lips; they press their shoulders harder to the door, arms tensing, hands pulling harder at the ties. He reaches up, pulling their hands down long enough to let the robe fall to the floor with a thump, then puts their hands back up high. "Of course you have," he says, breath hot on their skin. He presses his hands to their hips, overtop their remaining smalls.

Chrysanthe squirms, imagining the sight of him _looking_ at them, watching their every exaggerated reaction. Not even fully undressed yet, and they're just about ready for him to throw them to the ground, or bed, or even just shove their legs apart with one knee and take them right here up against the door. "Get _on_ with it, please," they hiss.

"Let me think about it," he says, straightening, pressing close; the fabric of his robe rubs roughly against their skin. Even through the robe, his skin is hot, and they feel the unmistakable sign of his own arousal pressing against them, confirming a suspicion they'd already had. Hades touches his fingers to their lips, and says, "No. I think that's quite enough out of you. Open up."

Some aetherial force stuffs its way into their mouth, filling it with power and nothingness. They make a startled noise, but that simply lets it force their mouth open and hold it there. It's easy to breathe, but it silences them effectively. They try to say something, but all they can manage is an inarticulate sound. Hades presses his lips to theirs. They find they can still move their tongue easily; Chrysanthe leans into the kiss, tongue tangling against his. Their breasts grind into his robe, the fabric rubbing roughly against their skin. It burns faintly; they press harder against him.

Hades' hand returns to their sole remaining bit of underthings, resting it on their hip, index finger settling against their pubic bone. He presses the kiss harder, pushing their head back against the door.

His fingers lead the way as he moves his hand downward and inexorably _inward._ He presses the soft linen, finding his way between their legs. Chrysanthe makes a shuddering gasp against Hades' lips when he strokes the damp fabric; they cannot help but grind what they hope is subtly against those two fingers.

It definitely is not subtle; his fingers push harder, pressing the material up between their lips. He pinches lightly, rubbing fingers together. He breaks the kiss, leaning his head back. "Dearest Azem," he teases warmly, "who intuits all words, bound here, _deprived_ of words. It would be so cruel of me to not myself intuit what you so obviously, _desperately_ desire and give it to you."

Of _course_ he takes his hand away then steps back entirely; they can no longer feel him at all. A frustrated whine escapes them, passing easily through their open mouth. A moment passes, then he drags damp fingers over their lower lip, taking them away once more after that single swipe. They strain to listen for his movements, catch the sound of _his_ breath, try to hear mounting impatience and strain in him.

Surely he too must be going nearly mad with anticipation-- he has been waiting just as long, _wanting_ just as long as they have. Except for that he _craves_ this cruelty himself, does he not? This _patience_. The call to wait has only been a little bit for romance, has it not? No, mostly it was for _this_. This moment here, where they both linger so near, will be drawn closer still.

He _still_ hasn't taken their _panties_ off, damn it. They squirm at the hips, only to hear a low chuckle in their ear. "How long could I leave you like that, with just your own thoughts to torment you? I don't even need to _touch_ you for you to drive yourself wild. Ah, in fact--" He pauses, then laughs again. His hand slips back down between their legs, still refusing to touch bare skin, rubbing the thin-but-too-thick, damp (wet) cloth. An agonizing tingle grows in the wake of his fingers, persistent, hot, an interminable buzz that somehow precisely avoids that one little spot that might give them some _relief_ if this were to continue.

Then he removes his hand; that _sensation_ remains. Slowly enough to not tangle their feet, he opens the door. His voice is so flippant the strain it veils is nearly hidden when he says, "I think I'll have a cup of coffee."

If Chrysanthe had the freedom to move their mouth, they would scream. Instead they grind against nothing at all, as if it will stem the tide of just-not-enough he's left them with. Oh, what they'll wreak on him when they just get their _chance_. But for now, they make a nasal, frustrated sound, tugging their wrists futilely at the aetherial bonds, struggle and fail to regain control of their mouth.

He takes his _time_, too, the bastard, as far as they can tell. Though a minute had might as well be an hour in the state he's left them in. They can't even focus on anything besides that endless, maddening feeling.

Their shoulders are squirming hard against the door when he presses it open behind them. Reflexively, they walk along with it, their thighs rubbing, smearing dampness beyond what mere underclothes can contain.

Hades touches a finger to their lower lip for a moment, then replaces it with a kiss. "Oh, that's the look I wanted to see. I thought-- this part of you at least-- might be a little dry, so I brought you some water. Wriggle your fingers if you'd like that, hmm?"

They do wriggle, and he slowly dribbles water into their mouth, giving them time to swallow, easing the throat they hadn't even realized was parched. Which only leaves them more able to feel the other, lower, more _deliberate_ sensations. Their hips writhe against the door, not finding _him_ anywhere.

Beside them, they hear a noise theatrical in its thoughtfulness, followed by a hand trailing their body from breast on down. They grind against his hand the moment it gets anywhere close, but it takes nothing, offers nothing, gives nothing, just rests against their still-shrouded slit, takes in the sopping mess he's made of them. Then that buzzing, tingling, _agony_ of a sensation finally_ ends_ and their world compresses into just the feeling of the heat of his hand on them, separated by only flimsiest linen. A pleased, smug little sound, right in their ear.

Then he reaches up and guides one of their hands downward to their side. He takes the other, lacing his fingers through theirs, and step by step leads them to-- a sharp, nasal sound emerges from their throat as he presses them down, and back, and into softness; a pillow beneath their head. He moves their hands, placing them back above their head, but their shoulders cry out with relief from no longer needing to hold their arms up. Their chest heaves; they turn their head, trying to track the sound of him, find Hades.

Chrysanthe feels him before they hear him, his nose against their stomach. His lips drag their bare flesh in the moments before he seizes their waistband between their teeth. Hades pulls them down, breath hot on their skin. They squirm at the hips, speeding the panties downward as best they can. He swats their hip, but otherwise lets them writhe until finally, finally, they're wholly bare.

He pulls away after; Chrysanthe hears the soft thump of robes hitting the ground. He rejoins them on the bed, drags his fingers over their cheek. "Chrysanthe...?"

They nod. More than once.

A shiver runs up their body when they feel him ease atop them, nudging their legs apart. His mouth above theirs, hair brushing against their cheek. The subtle pressure as he guides his tip down between their lower lips. They nod again, making a thin sound.

He pushes up into them, and their back arches tightly. He presses his mouth to theirs, and the pressure inside eases. Urgently, they kiss him, ignoring the ache in their jaw. One hand touches their breast, squeezing it, thumbing their nipple. His hips move with an urgency that speaks to his own need; they plant their feet against the bed, knees coming up. They curl their toes in the blankets, gripping for purchase.

Freed to move, they press their tongue into Hades' mouth, tasting his teeth, his cheeks. He makes a low sound into their mouth, his tongue tangling around theirs. The pressure against their wrists eases; they pull their hands down, pressing them to his back. Their fingers shift; nails dig into his soft skin. Chrysanthe drags them heavily, raking their nails down his back.

Hades groans; he leans his head back, breaking the kiss. He bites their lower lip sharply; they respond in kind, pulling their nails sharply sideways. He pulls his hand away from their breast for a split second, bringing his hand back in a swat. Chrysanthe looses a thin moan, pressing their whole body up against his.

The last of Hades' enchantments fades, and they blink in the sudden dim light. His face is above theirs, rapt as he gazes down at them. They press their hips up to meet his, gasping from the force of it.

Just the sight of him, unmasked, transfixed, skin dampened lightly with sweat is enough to push them nearly to the precipice, a desperate tingling heat spreading through their arms, their chest, from the glorious joining of their flesh. Their back arches rigidly, and they let out another moan, long enough to leave them gasping for air when the sound ends. Their nails dig hard into his back, pulling him tighter to their chest.

As they gasp and gulp for air, he presses hard up into them, holding steady for a long, aching moment, back rigid beneath their hands. One long breath, two, three, then he slowly sags atop them, exhaling a sweet sigh on their face.

He eases out of them, shifting to lie on his back beside them, breathing heavily.

"Coffee?" they ask, trying to still their breath. The laugh that bubbles up is staggered, gaspy. "Really?"

He brushes the back of his hand over their cheek. "If you could have seen the look on your face..."

Chrysanthe rolls over, sliding their arm around his waist, resting their cheek on his shoulder. "I'll have to put one just like it on yours. Mm-- the nails worked for you?"

Hades snugs them closer against his body, reaches over to pull a blanket up. "Ask me again in the morning." He tilts his head, resting his lips in their hair. "But yes."

They nod against his skin, drifting their palm over his side. He's so warm. "So mean to me," they breathe sweetly, shutting their eyes.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Emet-Selch is a big ol' bottom.  
Also me: _Writes him topping in their very first sex scene with him._
> 
> * * *


	20. Retreat Where Lesser Men Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elidibus has a migraine coming on.

The nature of the work means that each of the Ascians-- the original <strike>three</strike>two, anyway-- has a place where they escape to be alone at times. To sulk, if Emet-Selch is feeling uncharitable, and there are few moments in his life when he has ever felt less charitable than now. Politeness demands that one not intrude upon the other in such times, but neither is this a time for politeness.

So Emet-Selch takes himself to the moon, willing and ready to intrude upon Elidibus having a good sulk. He finds the Emissary sitting alone in the dirt, quite probably feeling sorry for himself. He clears his throat loudly.

"Leave me," says Elidibus, without rising.

"So soon?" Emet-Selch says breezily, making a flicking gesture with one hand. "But I've only just returned."

It is _tremendously_ satisfying to see Elidibus jump like a cat with a singed tail. In a split second, he's on his feet and gawking at Emet-Selch like he's never seen a man come back from the dead before. "I _felt_ you _die_," Elidibus hisses, stalking toward him.

Emet-Selch adjusts a sleeve nonchalantly. "Yes," he says. "So did I." Whatever else, it feels good to have his composure back.

Even if it comes at the expense of Elidibus'. "_How_?" He looks Emet-Selch up and down with an incredulity that looks like it could very well presage an outburst of _physical affection_. Emet-Selch slides one foot back, just in case. It's not enough-- it only lasts for a second or two, but Elidibus squeezes Emet-Selch's upper arms, still openly staring. Elidibus steps back once he catches himself, but repeats, "How did this happen?"

"It seems my attempts at outreach bore unexpected fruit," Emet-Selch says, pointedly straightening his coat. "_Not_ fruit I would have chosen, obviously. But the Warrior of Light has shown herself to be both highly manipulable and _incredibly_ foolish."

"That explains nearly nothing," says Elidibus. "I'm relieved beyond measure to see you returned, but I _must_ know more than that."

He can't help but frown. "Stuffing an extra bit of soul into herself ahead of anyone else fed some _ambitions_ in her, it seems," he says. "She was as good as dead. More than that, she was as good as transformed into a Lightwarden. But somehow she absorbed another fragment-- don't ask me how she pulled _that_ one off. We battled, and she gained the upper hand. Under different circumstances I might care to work out the methods she used, but I was, you understand, a little busy at the time. I believe the Exarch called forth greater power still from across the rift into her-- but that would mean nothing without the wherewithal to use it."

Elidibus makes a thoughtful sound. "My most recent encounter with her was somewhat unsettling, yes. It seems Hydaelyn sustains her far beyond mortal flesh could endure. I struck what was by rights a killing blow, and yet-- here we are." 

"Yes," says Emet-Selch dryly. "She told me about that. Most graphically. I do believe you traumatized her, not that anyone would notice amidst the rest of her mounting neuroses. Now, let's elide the remaining details of the battle and simply say that _she_ claims to have at some point during the encounter repaired her own soul using the very aether that was being deployed in the battle. Needless to say, I have my doubts. And in the end, she deployed that hideous white auracite. Which should have been the end of it." Very gently, he eases his own thoughts from the _feeling_ of auracite embedding itself everywhere into him, that hideous sucking vacuum of power pulling his very soul apart from form and then _shattering_. The flawed body he inhabits reflexively shudders. 

A look of concern flashes across Elidibus' lips, but he clearly holds himself back from any further outpourings. "Go on," he says and leaves it at that. 

His breath hitches; damn the semi-competent construction of this form. "Realize at this point firsthand knowledge fails me. Evidently the Warrior has in her possession what modern parlance calls a soul crystal. In this case its aspecting was compatible enough to extract sufficient aether from the auracite along with the remaining aetherial markers belonging to me. Enough that the starfish principle is in effect, at least. It seems that this crystal is particularly suited to mental re-creations."

This part is easier to describe somehow, for all that he was insensate during it. Certainly not because of it. Regardless, he continues. "From here she claims to have gained access to Allagan records, most likely via Syrcus, though she was also deploying tools I know to have been held only in Azys Lla. She further claims to have secured aid from an unanticipated element of a... personal project of my own. To hear her put it, she artificially amplified her own aethersight and used Allagan manipulation tools to reconstruct my soul, assisted by this element and-- an impossibility."

"Are you certain it's wise to dismiss anything with that woman as impossible? She has done nothing but defy expectations so far."

Emet-Selch feels the body go stiff. Another damn reflex. The words are sour in his mouth as he says, "She says that she heard the voice of my soul and used that as a guide to reassemble it. Which isn't a gift that has existed in such depth since the Sundering." 

Elidibus fixes him with a steady look. "I repeat: are you certain it's wise to dismiss the possibility?" 

"I watched the last known bearer of such a gift _die_," he snaps, waving a hand sharply. "That it would recur in a sundered soul is unthinkable." 

A pause while Elidibus taps two fingers together. "You _killed_ the last known bearer of such a gift," he clarifies like a knife in the chest. "_Before_ the Sundering. I lack your vision, 'tis true. But is it impossible that the ruins of such gifts might recur and be exploited? Hydaelyn is not above manipulation of circumstance to her own advantage." 

The body wets its lips and looks away for a moment. "There is... perhaps... an outside chance. But even before the end, it was a vanishingly rare gift." Emet-Selch returns his gaze to Elidibus. "I think it highly unlikely. The Warrior is a gifted, for one of her limited faculties, battle-mage, where the only person I ever knew with such a power was unable to endure causing direct harm to anything."

Elidibus waves that last off with a single gesture. "The gift is rare, not unique. Nor do these creatures seem to understand such nuances. It's enough to make one wonder if these primitive societies are less capable of-- but that is a matter for another time. You yourself spent the entire Allagan empire guised as a woman. You know better than to weight her present _gender_ as having any meaning at all. No, how did a sundered mortal create anything at all?"

"_Guised_ _as_ is not the same as _being_," he says irritably. "Her sole explanation was that she is an 'intuitive learner'. Which is patent nonsense."

A long-suffering sigh exits Elidibus like it's running away from a fire. "She perceives the language of a soul and draws intuitive connection at a preternatural level. Clearly there is some cunning at play in her selection as a weapon against us. Do you not see the possibility that she has compromised you?" 

This is ridiculous. Whatever else, he feels wholly himself. His mind does not touch the other potentiality, that of a different connection entirely. No. That cannot be. "Perhaps," says Emet-Selch, the word dragging itself out of his mouth, kicking and screaming.

"You would be a fool to not at least consider the possibility," says Elidibus flatly. "Am I then to assume that _you_ bear the message for me that she was to send?"

"I _am_ the message," says Emet-Selch. "She also wanted you to... 'check her work'. This body is seriously flawed but fixable with some time and effort. However, there's no telling how badly she mangled my aether. Everything feels superficially correct, and I don't expect you'll be able to untangle any truly minute errors, but what lies between those extremes should be within your abilities to pinpoint."

Elidibus looks Emet-Selch up and down, making a thoughtful noise in the back of his nose. "Proof of her good faith and her skill, is what I was told. The fact that she managed to succeed at such a daring thing..."

A scowl grows across Emet-Selch's face. "Proof of 'skill'? Please, she charged in blindly with at best half of a plan and that I even feel a little like myself is a _miracle_, not skill." He flexes his fingers, still too stiff by half. "Good faith though, yes-- good faith which _I_ cultivated. Hydaelyn grips her mind most thoroughly-- but creative framing is all the enticement I needed. She'll serve and serve well as a creature such as herself can, so long as the thought that she works for her own deity's best interest is kept in the forefront of her mind. And she'll convince herself of that with mere crumbs."

"Perhaps not skill," says Elidibus. "But talent? Absolutely. Which can be molded into skill. There may be some value in that, assuming we can keep a hand on her leash. Perhaps I shall accept her request for a meeting. But I'm not yet prepared to discard the contingency plans I've set in motion. Not without a better picture of your state of being. I don't dispute the wisdom in being concerned for _that_, at least."

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes. "Well, I can certainly rest easily knowing I have your approval in at least one thing. If you're going to look now, shall we do this literally anywhere else? I don't think that madwoman understands how _joints_ work, and standing for this long has been a trial."

Elidibus makes a solicitous gesture. "By all means. Do you wish to choose the location? I leave myself at your disposal."

There's that snag in his aether again, unmistakable as he directs the flow of it. Well, they'll work out what it is. "Follow me," says Emet-Selch, taking himself away on the aether.


	21. Flee From What You Do Not See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate clears some Content and takes a relaxing vacation with friends.

After leaving Amaurot for the second time, Unfortunate feels oddly hollow. She spends a full day staring up at the ceiling of her room in the Pendants, not even _thinking_ about anything. The Elia bobs nearby, cheerily playing the songs she had it record off her orchestrion, providing Unfortunate with the vague sense that she is, in fact, Doing Something Today. It's not that she's tired (she is, and sleeping doesn't help), she just feels as though there's nothing left inside of her that she can give to, well, anything.

Out of a vague sense of obligation, she trudges her way back to the Source, forcing a smile for G'raha as she passes him by.

She barely even feels the rain in Mor Dhona. She's soaking by the time she arrives in the Rising Stones. Dealing with the puddles of water serves as a decent cover for the fact that it takes a good half a minute for it to register that Tataru's telling her about Krile returning.

"Oh," says Unfortunate vaguely. "That's good. I'm going to go change into something dry while she works." _By the way, you remember that Ascian I told you I killed? I figured out how to bring him back. Then I let him go._ It takes conscious effort to keep the words from falling out of her mouth. Instead, she says, "Could you put on some tea for me, please?"

There's rarely much left in her rooms in the Rising Stones; she doesn't spend a great deal of time here. A couple changes of clothes, spare armour, a few books. There's a note from Unukalhai indicating he passed her message along. Not much else. She throws on a loose shirt, winds her hair in a towel, and after some deliberation, throws on a worn, comfortable skirt. Pants feel like too much effort. She leans her forehead against her door and counts to ten, though she loses count of how many times she does that.

Krile is waiting in the common room by the time she gets back. Unfortunate nods at appropriate moments when she hears that of course there's problems, there's always fucking problems and she's just got to turn right back around and take the news back to the First. She chugs the tea Tataru made for her, heedless of the heat.

"Wait, before you go," says Krile, squinting up at Unfortunate. "Your aether is... I've never seen you look so drained."

Unfortunate shrugs. She says, "I took the time off to use the Tower's resources to investigate some ancient Allagan techniques. I may have over-extended a little. I'm _tired_, but I feel fine otherwise." This is not strictly true, but most of what she's _feeling_ isn't new.

Krile frowns, looking her up and down. "Yees, that would make sense with what I'm seeing, aside from this strange little-- it's almost like your aether is _caught_ on something, but I can't tell what. I'm not half so concerned with that as with your drain. I don't expect you to sit back and do nothing, but it might be a good idea for you to lay off on the magecraft for a while. Some less intensive practice instead might do you well for a time."

"Right," says Unfortunate. "I'll go get my sword. I'm waiting for the rain to stop before I head back out, though."

* * *

It's a testament to her exhaustion that Unfortunate only briefly feels an urge to punch both Alisaie and the Exarch in the face for this pedestal nonsense they have her up on, and Y'shtola shortly thereafter. As if any of these little shites think she'd feel possessive enough of them to be able to carry them through the rift.

_Fuck_ her up the _ass_, but she shouldn't be doing this right now. She nods and doesn't pretend to smile as the damned auracite comes up again. All right, the stuff has its uses, but Rabanastre sticks out in her memory, thinking of it, and didn't Unukalhai mention something about it, too? Fuck. She can't make herself care right now. She just can't.

Not that she needs to; they point her at the damn castle across the lake and she cuts a swathe of constructed bodies through it. That's fun. It's been a while since she's gotten set on _fire_, after all. She runs her errands afterward like a good little girl, fetching dirt and all of that nonsense. And of _course_ she'll go to Eulmore, why wouldn't she.

She does at least force a smile for Dulia-Chai, if for no other reason than that if she doesn't, she's just going to get _doted on_. Which just gets her roped into finding Chai-Nuzz for her. And that's how she saves Eulmore. Again. At least she doesn't have to fight the damn Talos.

Under different circumstances she might be quite taken with the man Chai-Nuzz seeks out, whatever his name is. W-something. He certainly eyes her a little, but she can't make herself interested even in the idea of faking it. Maybe she _did_ push herself too far. Not that the damn dwarf asking her to check in on Tomra seems able to tell that.

She's pretty sure it would be wrong to murder the dwarven kids she ends up babysitting. Would it _kill_ them to just _ask_ for once? Especially if they're going to be setting off bombs around her? The mysterious girl and the factory they uncover do manage to stir her interest, a little bit, but it's all frustrating in how impenetrable it is. There's none of the footholds she has with Allagan ruins.

All of the white dust in the air sends her coughing violently as she walks behind the kids and the-- machine girl? Unfortunate barely even thinks about the jackass boy that threatens to kill her for associating with that girl. He may have a very large machine with very powerful guns, but she has a sword and no patience. Someone should have told him that he'd be facing the Warrior of Light and/or Darkness on a bad day.

She feels like she probably ought to care about the girl breaking but she probably ought to care about a lot of things. She musters some mild annoyance at being dragged back into the factory by the kids, but not much more. And hey, free clothes in this room full of broken machine girls. Waste not, want not, after all.

Unfortunate leaves the kids and their broken machines with a promise to check back in eventually, stuffing her haul of dresses, stockings, and boots into a sack and heading back to the Crystarium. Again, maybe she should feel bad about stripping down those machines which at least _looked_ an awful lot like people, but wow, these tights make her ass look _great_. Checking herself out in the mirror elicits the first real, full smile she's felt since returning from Amaurot. The boots have some killer ankle support, too, like they're actually designed to fit someone with substantial weight to them. Only time wearing them will tell how that stiletto heel actually feels for more than a few minutes, but she feels like she could kill a man with them, and that's always good. Most of the dresses are a little short for her tastes, but there's this one full-length gown that, as far as she can sense, is even properly aetherically reinforced for her to work in.

She wears it to the Ocular, a coat thrown over her shoulders just to make it look less flamboyant for a meeting to discuss something as serious as how to move her companions' souls back to their bodies.

"Are you... taller?" asks Alphinaud, looking up, and up, and up at her.

"Found some boots," she says, with actual, unforced good cheer, sticking her leg out for the boy to take a look.

He blinks. "O-oh. I see."

She looms as she listens to Beq Lugg explain the dilemma regarding the different aetheric layers of mind and soul, and the poor fit auracite makes for that. She applies all the will she has in her body to maintain a straight face when Urianger posits the notion of using a _soul crystal_ for such a purpose. The black stone against her chest throbs with something that feels like laughter. She nods, touching the tomestone in her coat pocket, while everyone agrees around her to send her back to the Source.

"Yes," she says quietly. "I'm sure the Allagans knew something of pertinence. I'll update Tataru and Krile-- and then, I fear, I really, truly, must get some _rest_. I feel sorely pushed, my friends. But I'll bring back some tarts for you, Y'shtola, when I come."

Y'shtola smiles. "I'd appreciate that. But there's no need for you to trouble yourself."

Unfortunate waves it off. "I could do with more trips to a bakery. Right, I'm going to go get a few things, then I'll just get this over with right now."

Most of it's just her haul from the factory and a few other odds and ends. Not a lot, but she wants a fair bit of this in her closet. She notes vaguely as she packs that her feet don't hurt in these boots _at all_, and that for all that the dress is clearly tightly fitted for support and also armoured, in addition to being stylish as every hell, it's comfortable and easy to move in. Shit. Is this all it takes to brighten her mood? A little bit, maybe, she guesses.

Krile takes the news pretty well, and it's good to see Estinien again, not that she needs the damn Echo-headache she's going to have for the rest of the day. He grumbles when she squeezes him tight in her arms, but that's not something she gives a shit about. It's been too long, since it's not like she _saw_ him saving her life. She doesn't tell him about the cat.

"So how am I looking now?" Unfortunate asks Krile. "I've more or less stuck to what you said, no magecraft or anything of the sort. I _have_ been fighting, and it does take a fair bit out of me just defending myself, but not nearly so much."

"Let's see," says Krile, looking her up and down thoughtfully. "That strange little hitch is still there. It's almost like a loose thread... but the rest looks much improved. I think you'll look better still if you take this time you have now and just get some rest. No studying ancient Allagan magical techniques, do you hear me?"

"That was my plan," says Unfortunate. "I'm going home. If I'm not there, I'll probably be in Ishgard. Either or. Nobody needs me for anything at all, right?"

Tataru shakes her head. "No, nothing. And I'll make sure of it. You've earned yourself a vacation, Unfortunate, and you'd better take advantage of one."

She manages a smile. "Just as long as I'm still getting paid. Right. I'll wait for word."

* * *

The weather in Mist is as balmy as ever, at least. That's nice. Actually nice, not sarcastic nice. She lets herself in at home and finds Lotus out. That's fine, honestly. Less fine is her examination of the pantry turning up a mouldy loaf of bread, a packet of crackers, and half a jar of mayonnaise.

She sits down at the kitchen table with three cracker-and-mayonnaise sandwiches, the alternative being going to the market, which, no. Not right now. Maybe later. Estinyan hops up on the table to smell one. He bristles his back and abandons her.

Somehow, they taste worse than they sound. So she's not dipping into Lotus' fogweed stash today, then.

The front door clatters open, along with Lotus' return. Mercifully, her arms are full of grocery bags. Unfortunate shoves her remaining gross little sandwich aside and goes to take one of the bags from her.

"Back already?" says Lotus, shifting the bags around. "How do you look even more like shit than before?"

"Yeah, well, fuck off," says Unfortunate. She throws out the old loaf of bread and tosses her crackers on top. "Put some unorthodox black magic theories to the test. Drained the shit out of my aether, apparently. Tataru says I'm on _vacation_."

Lotus starts unpacking the groceries; Unfortunate puts them away. "About time she said something that makes a damn bit of sense," says Lotus. "So what're you gonna do?"

Unfortunate shrugs. She cracks one of the beers. "Dunno," she says. "I've got a message I'm waiting for, but even following up on that shouldn't be aetherially taxing or anything. Just spend some time around the house, I guess. The beach, maybe. Or I hear the Manufactory up in Ishgard is giving out marksmanship lessons. I wouldn't mind knowing how to handle a gun..."

"Oh no," says Lotus, grabbing a beer of her own. "Look, if you're bad enough off that even Tataru's telling you to take time off, you need to not go off _learning shit_. You can see the damned beach from the front yard. Just pick up some two-gil trash book and plan to do nothing for once. Get a _tan_, or something, your skin still looks like you fell face first into a sack of flour. Instead of moisturizing."

Oh, come _on_. Unfortunate folds her arms across her chest. "I don't _tan_, I _burn_. And where the hell am I suppose to keep lotions with me? I went to an illusionary _city_ under the _ocean_. I don't need to take this shit from someone who wears a hat like that." She nods meaningfully at the traditional hat of the red mages, still set on Lotus' head.

Lotus' eyebrows raise high. She takes a swig of her beer and takes a good long look at Unfortunate's dress. "Well what the hell is that? Is that an _evening gown_?"

"Kinda?" Unfortunate raps at the bodice with her knuckles. "But get a load of this, it's armoured to fuck and gone. And my tits haven't budged since I put this thing on; I've never felt so supported in my life." She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet to demonstrate, not even wobbling on those sharp new heels. _Damn_, these are some nice boots.

"Where would you even _get_ an armored evening gown?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. Factory? I pulled it off a magitek girl."

Lotus presses her face into her palm. "I understand even less now than I did before, which now that I think about it is par for the course with you."

"So what you're saying is you _don't_ want free stockings."

The back-and-forth goes like that for a while, as Unfortunate prepares a more substantial snack than mayonnaise on crackers and Lotus does deploy the water-pipe.

"Look, I just don't want to be doing nothing," says Unfortunate, tilting her chair backwards and loosing a lungful of smoke. Esty hops up onto her lap and she strokes his back softly. "I _know_ I need to rest but I just wind myself up harder if I have nothing to focus on. I think about things, you know? It's... shit. It's been a lot." Somehow it seems easier to notice that right now. She rubs one hand against her face, underneath her glasses.

"It is a lot," says Lotus, packing another bowl. "And I'm sick of hearing your excuses for why you just won't say no to the Scions. So let's do an actual vacation instead. No sending word back to the Stones where you're off to. I heard about this spa place in the Shroud. They've got hot springs and snails that walk over your face. Get you a massage or some shit."

Through the fogweed, Unfortunate becomes clearly aware of just how much she does not want someone laying hands on her bare body. She thinks that if it weren't through that pleasant, hazy buffer, she might well be nauseated at the notion. Which is probably a sign she actually seriously needs it, even if she's going to have to work herself up to it. "Yeah, all right," says Unfortunate.

They take a day and a bit to lay out plans; Unfortunate does her best to relax once things are settled. She flops on her bed, petting Esty and flipping through assorted data on her tomestone. She avoids the soulcraft she'd been looking up previously and peruses a technical document on aetheric power conduits. She doesn't understand any of it but the puzzling through it is nice just for not being relevant to anything important. Too much math to it, though.

They take an airship over to Gridania like regular tourists. Rich ones anyway, which Unfortunate guesses she is these days. Which is a strange thought, even if it's been a long time since she's been an ordinary village girl. She takes her sword with her, because even on a vacation she's not going unarmed. It's with some satisfaction she notices that Lotus brings her own rapier with her.

The weapons do get put aside when they reach the spa, exchanged for soft robes. An attendant takes Unfortunate aside, leading her to a quiet room that smells faintly of-- is it lavender? Tension knots her stomach as she tries to tell herself that yes, this is going to be fine.

It's fine. It's fine. This is good for her and she should do it. She holds it together. Some persistent knots between her shoulders even get worked out, once she gets used to the feeling of hands. It is, in fact, fine. She takes a moment breathing heavily, elbows planted on her knees before she heads out, meeting up with Lotus in one of the steaming pools of water.

Unfortunate shudders briefly as she gets in, letting the heat work its magic to not undo everything that's just been done to her back. She keeps her eyes shut, even as she feels her glasses fog from the steam. This is all right, at least.

"Better?" she hears beside her.

She exhales. "I think so. I'm not used to... being handled, anymore. Not by anyone who wasn't putting my insides back inside, anyway." Which is fundamentally different, not least because she's rarely conscious for that part.

If Lotus says something to that she doesn't really hear it, because the water _is_ doing her good, melting everything down into a nice, steamy fog. When was the last time she had a really good bath? Was it Rak'tika? The water there has been very nice. It feels like a lifetime ago. She sinks more into the water, letting her heels slide across the bottom of the pool.

She could sleep like this. Not a good idea with all the water around, but it's warm, and it's cozy, and what the fuck is this bundle of fur hitting her in the face?

"What the shit?" Unfortunate pulls her ass back underneath herself so she can sit straight; something splashes in front of her tits. Something white... and furry... and winged... with a giant pom... "Oh, fuck, no."

"Is that a _moogle_?" says Lotus as the please-let-her-be-wrong paddles to the edge of the pool. "Shit. Oh, shitfuck."

The bepommed creature shakes itself dry, spraying hot water everywhere. "Warrior! Warrior's friend! I'm so glad you're here! Something terr--"

Lotus grabs him by the ruff. "Fuck off and leave immediately, kupo."

Unfortunate slowly, slowly turns to face the moogle, righting her glasses. "Kuplo Kopp, if nothing is on fire, I swear by everything that's holy, I'm going to introduce you to my _friend_ Sidurgu."

The moogle gulps, his pom quavering. "It's really serious, kupo! I and my friends were talking and then some of the Mogglesguard came up to us and they said--" Twin glares send his wings fluttering even harder, and he expedites the story. "A-anyway, they summoned the king, and he's _really mad this time_!"

Unfortunate rises out of the pool and sighs. "_Fine_, let me go get my linkpearls. Please don't kill the moogle, Lotus. We can kill the Mogglesguard instead. _Again_. Which you would _think_ would be a deterrent to taking the job, but there you go, I guess." She picks up her rented robe and ties it tight at her waist.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?" Unfortunate hears behind her back.

The next bell is an agony of sifting through a pile of labeled linkpearls while Lotus vents at the moogle in the background.

"How do you feel about Gridania this time of year? -- oh, huh, bodyguard job, that's great that you got some work. I'll catch up with you about it later..."

"You had one job! One job! That job was to not summon the king!"

"Yeah, hey, the moogles are back on their bullshit, how-- oh. You need to wash your cat. Okay. Yeah, I believe you. Honest."

"Every fucking time with you people, it's like I can't even leave the house without hearing primal, primal, primal!"

"Heyy, do you hate moogles? Oh. You don't. Uh, never mind then. Talk to you later."

"I can't _believe_ this shit," Lotus is still going on by the time Unfortunate comes back, holding a couple pearls in hand. Kuplo Kopp looks mildly traumatized by the whole experience, which Unfortunate might care more about, if he weren't a moogle.

Unfortunate sighs, looking down at Lotus. "Okay, let's get our shit together. This should be quick, at least. Managed to get through to a couple people-- I've got good news and I've got bad news."

Lotus sighs and pulls herself out of the water. "Fuck's sake. Fine, what's the _good_ news?"

She tosses and catches one of the linkpearls. "Undzent picked up. She'll meet us in town. The bad news is that Eox picked up. He'll be meeting us there too. Should be fine with just the four of us. It's only moogles, nothing dangerous. I'd call Sid-with-an-S in if it wasn't likely to get him tempered by his Majesty, and I wouldn't wish that on him."

"Shit. I am neither high nor sober enough for Eox."

"Yeah, well." Unfortunate shrugs, rolling her shoulders. "Let's fix that on the way. If I can't swing a greatsword through half a dozen Mogglesguard while high off my ass, I'll eat your hat."

The two of them start walking back to where they left their clothes. "So you'll take the fore? Well you're shite at dodging anything anyway." Lotus starts gathering up her things and tosses her robe aside.

Unfortunate snorts. "Last time I let you do it I got stabbed." Where in the hells did she put her smalls? There. Okay, good. She wriggles her way into them.

"You _saw_ him coming and you didn't get out of the way!" Lotus tugs on her her underclothes and moves on to keep dressing. "You just stood there in your damn ley lines without even _moving_."

"I was _casting_ a _spell_," Unfortunate gets her dress into place, taking a few moments to get her chest into place. "And I assumed you were doing your _job_ and going to distract him."

Lotus finishes dressing, ending off with her hat. "It's _everyone's_ job to not get stabbed. So is it just the four of us? Is anyone handling patch-up work?"

The boots take a little bit longer for Unfortunate to get on. "Uh, Eox said something about taking up conjury. Better him than me, I figure."

"Eox. We're trusting Eox with healing us."

There they go. She gets the boots done up and she stands, stretching out her arms. "With healing _me_. It's just moogles. It'll be fine. What's the worst that could happen?"

* * *

"Okay, so, this Ascian, did he have the claws?" The world's worst Scion, Eox Siame, hikes up his ludicrous white robes to try to keep up with three roegadyn women very intentionally walking faster than him through the Shroud.

Unfortunate shifts her greatsword into a more comfortable position on her back. "I don't know, probably? He never really wore the outfit, except at the very end, and, I mean, I had other things on my mind. He just wore, you know, regular gloves. Fancy ones. But regular." There is not enough fogweed in the world to make this bearable. She holds out a hand for Lotus to pass her the joint. She takes a deep, deep drag.

"Please stop, Eox." Undzent shifts her gun, though why anyone that muscular ever needed to take up shooting is beyond Unfortunate. "Just... stop."

Eox runs a little harder to catch up with the other three. "I will never stop," he says, and they all know it. "Gloves, huh? So how hot was he?"

He _had_ to be listening to his linkpearl today, didn't he. He _had_ to be. "The fuck, Eox? What does it matter-- oh, shit, wait, fuck, no."

All three Scions stop dead around Unfortunate, wincing in a very familiar manner, clutching their foreheads.

A cold sweat runs down the back of Unfortunate's neck. "What the _fuck_, you guys, get out of my _head!_" It is of course an absolutely useless sentiment, the Echo not working that way in the slightest. She's been found out, what does she even _say?_

Undzent is the first to come out of it. "Your _glasses_?"

"Holy shit," says Lotus.

"Wait, wait, wait," says Eox. "Did I just have a stroke or was that the Emperor of Garlemald judging your choice of shampoo?"

Oh. Oh. that's not nearly so bad as-- Unfortunate's cheeks burn. Okay, no, no, it's not nearly so bad as if they'd seen her recent efforts. Nothing to be ashamed of. Why are her cheeks on fire? She picks up the pace, trying to keep ahead of them.

"How the hell do you know that?" Lotus behind her.

"What?" Eox actually sounds a little affronted. "He's in books."

"You can read?"

"What's it even matter?" Unfortunate snaps, her face still burning. Stupid Echo. Always Echoing things. "If you don't keep up I'm doing this kupocide myself. Anyway, no, it _wasn't_, it was the _former_ Emperor, all right?"

"I just thought he'd be taller, okay."

Unfortunate rubs her face with her hand, taking a deep, deep breath. Change the subject, change the subject. "Conjuration, huh? I swear, if you just sit back and do nothing but cast a few mending spells--"

"Oh, no," he says. "I've been learning some white magic, actually. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

"_White_ magic?" Unfortunate glances back over her shoulder at him. "Since when are you a padjal?"

He produces a small crystal. "Since never. But I was chosen to carry on the legacy of Amdapor and take the white in this time of need."

Something about this deeply, deeply offends Unfortunate, heir to Shatotto, greatest sorceress in all of Mhach. Obviously it shows the inherent superiority of Mhachi sense-making relative to Amdapori, but it also feels to sort of somehow cheapen it, really. She opens her mouth, and then shuts it.

The previous subject refuses to be dropped, because Eox is himself. "So did you see his dick?"

The heat rises once more to Unfortunate's cheeks. The worst part is she _did_, sort of, or at least she saw the one she made for him, just because, after all, of course she _had_ to put a dick on, that was just anatomy. But that was _after_ he died. That doesn't count.

Lotus' voice rises. "You saw his dick!"

"I-I," says Unfortunate. "_When_ would I see his dick? Nald's gaping asshole, what is _wrong_ with you people?"

"I thought you went over there to stop the eighth umbral calamity, not _cause_ the eighth cumbral calamity," she thinks it's Eox who says it but her ears just burn.

She doesn't look back, doesn't want to look at the faces that are going along with the absolute hyena laughter behind her. "Sweet Mother, I wish he'd killed me," she groans. And groans again when she hears everyone stop dead in their tracks behind her. Very, very carefully she glances back to see three very, very familiar expressions of Echo-induced headache. _Please don't see how I saw his dick, please don't see how I saw his dick_, she thinks, inelegantly.

"Holy _shit,_" says Lotus, as she comes out of it.

"Were those... tentacles?" Undzent asks, pale beneath her bright mop of hair.

"You thought he was so hot you _cried._ Twice."

"This is worse than Nabriales," says Lotus, shaking her head theatrically. "Honestly, what's the matter with you?"

Eox raises a finger. "Nabriales was kind of hot, though."

"Well, that's a whole bunch of issues we don't have time to unpack right now."

Unfortunate spins and picks up the pace, trying to avoid every urge to just run off into the forest and curl up and _die_. "That's not why I-- I don't think those were-- I-- wasn't he the one with the awful hair? I-- look, if we don't deal with this we're going to have the entire forest singing the praises of the Good King Moggle Mog the howevermanyteenth and I am not going to let that happen, so let's get _on_ with it, okay?"

None of what she did had _anything_ to do with... with what they were saying. None of it.

* * *

There's an actual sort of catharsis involved in facing down the King and his Mogglesguard, though. Maybe it's in telling a bunch of moogles that you fucked their mothers in order to try to herd them all into one spot, or in just wildly swinging a tremendous sword through them, and Undzent certainly seems to enjoy the hail of bullets she pumps into the resilient little bastards. Behind her, Lotus does her-- whatever it is red mages do between jumping in and getting stabby.

But why aren't they killing the one who's setting her on _fire_? And _what_ is Eox doing?

"Okay, okay," he says, and stifles a laugh. He gives his staff a little twirl. "This next one's called 'assize'."

"What," says Unfortunate, swinging her sword right through a little moogle with a knife. And damned if the spell doesn't reinvigorate her, but-- "_Assize?_ Really? This is why Amdapor lost the War of the Magi."

Lotus darts past her, sticking the tiny shield-bearing on on the point of her rapier. "_Everyone_ lost the War of the Magi!"

Unfortunate barely gets out of the way of Undzent's spray of gunfire. "Someone just get the Pomburner, all right?" says Undzent, shifting to fill the little shitbird with as many bullets as she possibly can.

But in the end, it's about like Unfortunate said, and the King and his Mogglesguard are no match for four mildly intoxicated Scions of the Seventh Dawn and dissolve into their component aether.

Kuplo Kopp very timidly shows his pom, peeking around the edge of a tree. He looks around and flutters his way in front of them. A few more moogles pop up from around the fringes. "Thank you so much, Scions! I, uh, we wanted to thank you for helping us out again. We know we interrupted some important vacation time, so maybe we could make it up by throwing you a party?"

Unfortunate shoves aside a very ominous feeling about partying with moogles. She forces a smile. "Well, uh, I guess so. What did you have in mind?"

The ominous feeling returns in full the following <strike>morning</strike>afternoon when she wakes up with a splitting headache, lying on a rock. Her dress is neatly folded and cleaned beside her, and she's wearing... formalwear? She blinks, trying to remember. It isn't until she reaches for her spectacles that she sees Lotus lying nearby, similarly dressed.

"What the fuck," she whispers, rubbing her forehead. She reaches over, shoving Lotus on the arm.

Lotus awakens and takes a look around, squinting down at herself, too. "What the _fuck_," she says.

Eox bounds up from nearby. "You're awake!" he chirps, because of course he's a <strike>morning</strike>afternoon person. "Congratulations, you two! The moogles saw how well you were getting on last night, and they just _had_ to throw the ceremony right then and there! And seriously, thank you for letting me be your best man."

"Eox was..." Unfortunate says slowly. The wheels in her mind start turning, reluctantly. "... our best man?"

"Is that _legal_?"

"Oh, fuck," says Unfortunate, resting her face in her hands, leaning her elbows on her knees. "Fuck. I mean, neither of us were in our right mind, that can't be binding. Not that I have anything against you, but, I mean, no, thank you."

But out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of something pinned beneath her sword-- parchment, of some sort. Unfortunate doesn't register Lotus' response as she leans over to pick up the page and unfolds it twice. Elegant calligraphy done in gold-flecked blue ink reads: _Name a time and place of your choosing to the boy._

So much for vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thornmarch (Extreme Embarrassment) 
> 
> All PCs used with permission. Watch this space or a subsequent notes section for details about the in-game wedding date.
> 
> * * *
> 
> [The ink at the end is real and it's gorgeous.](https://www.gouletpens.com/collections/jacques-herbin-ink/products/jacques-herbin-1670-bleu-ocean-50ml-bottled-ink)


	22. Blind Man's Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A game where every player has a card, and sees all cards save their own.

Unfortunate passes off word through Unukalhai and arranges for a back room in the Forgotten Knight. The act feels dangerously like shitting where she eats, but she trusts Gibrillont more than most. When she says she needs a quiet space for an ostensibly friendly meeting with at least one dangerous man, who may or may not be coming in by the door, he just nods thoughtfully and reminds her that she'll be billed for any property damage.

"Thanks," she says, forking over the cash for the rental. "If I thought it'd get ugly, I wouldn't bring it here. But you never know. You'll want to clear the place if you start hearing anything bad. Oh, and here, for Sid and Rielle next time they're in, this should cover a couple for each of them."

"You, missy," says Gibrillont, "are lucky you're such good business. Don't think I'd put up with this for just anyone." He hands her a bottle of rye whiskey and lets her look it over before he pours her out a good two onze glass, neat.

She laughs, pushing her hair out of the way of her spectacles. She should probably get a trim sometime soon, she thinks vaguely. "Why do you think I keep coming back? I'm sure it'll be fine. I'd just rather be safe than sorry." She holds a thumb out over the glass and lets a prism of ice slowly build up until it's nearly too large to fit before letting it fall into the glass.

She takes a long, contemplative sip while she waits for the girl to emerge from the kitchens, bearing a heavy bowl of soup, thick with potato and cabbage and bacon, leeks offering a token bit of bright green to the mix. Butter slowly melts into the split bread rolls piled onto the plate that comes down next to the soup. A moment later and Unfortunate receives the last of it-- water, served in a beer tankard.

Unfortunate sops soup up into a chunk of bread, making an appreciative sound at how the rolls are almost too hot to touch. Damned if she's going into this on an empty stomach. Her third spoonful comes up with a whole clove of garlic that just falls apart in her mouth, the taste mellowed just a little from having given up to the broth. There's something nostalgic about the flavour, like running home with cheeks red from autumn wind.

She blinks twice, bread pinching away between her fingers. Some preparation she's doing. What's she even going to say? She'll just wing it, she guesses. That'll work, facing down at least one Ascian, probably two, and who knows if there'll be more. Probably not more. 

Unfortunate runs a hand back through her hair and slurps down a soup that tastes like a place she'll never return to.

* * *

The room she's rented out is small with a table and a few chairs, ostensibly a private dining room. Room to stand without being cramped, but no wasted space. Rapping on the walls suggests the place is well-insulated, and there are a few flecks on the ground of what could only be bloodstains, diligently scrubbed away.

In short, it's just about perfect. She leans her staff against the wall; easily within reach if she needs to, but something she'll have to go out of her way for. Trust. But not too much trust.

The hairs on the backs of her arms prickle up and she feels something in her own aether grow taut a full few seconds before the air distorts into tight black clouds. A figure emerges, white-robed and masked; shortly thereafter comes one in black, barefaced, his hood hanging loose down his back. Emet-Selch affects a look of boredom, glancing at the unadorned walls. Slouching again. After she just _made_ that back.

It's Elidibus she needs to set her attention to, anyway; Elidibus to whom she had asked to speak. He makes a perfunctory half-bow. "Warrior," he says silkily. "Your invitation was most unexpected."

She waves at the chairs, not waiting for a response before she seats herself. "I thank you for granting me this indulgence," she says, expression not changing. The corner of Elidibus' mouth rises. He sits. Something's familiar about his voice, but she can't quite put her finger on it. Regardless, she continues. "Many things have changed since the first time we spoke, and the less said of our most recent meeting, the better. I believe we have much to discuss."

"You have my attention," says Elidibus. "I presume your... act of good faith was not done solely out of the goodness of your heart." 

"What if it was?" says Unfortunate softly. She looks Emet-Selch up and down as if that will somehow grant her a power to view aether unaided. He leans against the wall, frowning. Her friends' laughter burns in the back of her head. "There were probably other avenues I could have taken. We-- we talked a lot. Of course I assumed an ulterior motive, but I..." 

Emet-Selch makes a short, single laugh, a sound entirely devoid of mirth. "And so you decided to undo all that you had worked for on the First because of a few casual conversations with a man who was most assuredly seeking not only your death but your pain." 

Unfortunate leans back, tilting her chair onto its back legs. "I don't believe one word of that. Not that I undid the work-- the Light is thoroughly neutralized. You wouldn't need to restart from precisely scratch but close to it. My pain? No. That was never the goal. My death? An acceptable consequence. But nothing more. Not what you sought-- why else spend so much time speaking with me?"

"I was _bored." _

"That, I do believe," says Unfortunate. "But that's not a whole truth. _Yes_, I had a goal in mind here. But if I'm being honest, against my better judgement, it does come back to something you said just now. 'A man', you know? What do you think Ascians used to be to me? Jackasses in masks coming to ruin my day and be mysterious. I fucking-- I _liked_ Moenbryda a lot, and one of you killed her. Or what happened in Azys Lla, or, shit, the way you lung-fucked me. It's not like any of you were people to me. That makes it easier. You both know how _that_ is."

Elidibus laces his fingers together and rests his chin atop them, leaning forward to-- she thinks-- watch her across the table. "Ah. This would be the colourful vernacular you'd spared me before."

"And then, you know," she says, exhaling. "Well, it's not like you can really call when we met a conversation." She nods to Elidibus for that, then over at Emet-Selch. "But you... bored? Yes. And I, despite my best efforts, am alone. I have no doubt that you saw that. Obviously you were taking advantage of that." She drums her fingers against the table and returns her attention to Elidibus. "Well-- I don't see a need to repeat the entire conversation. But I ended up asking him why, if I have in fact been enlightened by Hydaelyn, he would reach out to me so. Not only would I never turn aside from Her grace, I _could_ never. Which left me to wonder: what's in it for him? For all of you?"

She pauses, briefly wishing she'd thought to bring water in with her. "He didn't need to turn me away from Hydaelyn, he said. Just needed there to be something in Zodiark that Hydaelyn considers worth fighting for. As if I might willfully choose to aid Him. And I wondered what that could possibly be. He didn't give me an answer to that one, so I set it aside for a while."

Elidibus gives her the briefest of nods. "Your will is certainly your own," he says. "Such as it is. But I wonder if you are yoked to Her boundaries, or if it is simply that She trusts your judgement? One of those is doubtless far more _comforting_ than the other. Nevertheless, continue."

Emet-Selch's expression is a fixed frown; he doesn't seem to be looking at her at all. The strange, tugging sensation she feels grows stronger, and yet seems even harder to place.

"So anyway," she says, shaking her head to regain her train of thought. Now is not the time to be distracted by which of those might well be the greater comfort. "Of course there are things I cannot see, because of the nature of my will. By the same token, there are things that _you_ cannot. Anything I hear from you is not only coloured by agenda-- but there are things you will never truly be able to contemplate because it is not your will to do so. The question then became: what did Emet-Selch need with someone with both power and inverse vision? What, _precisely_, was the 'path of lesser tragedy' that he spoke of? I didn't have any answers until it was nearly too late. Until I followed an invitation to-- is that all right to talk about?"

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes, making a flippant gesture with one hand. "Yes, yes, keep going. I'm sure it's critical to this _riveting_ monologue of yours."

Unfortunate's eyes narrow. "I wasn't sure if it was personal or anything. Ass. So, I followed under the sea and found a creation of Emet-Selch's-- a vision of the city of Amaurot."

A suspicion confirmed: Elidibus snaps his gaze over to Emet-Selch. So, he didn't know-- but he's also fine with Unfortunate knowing that.

"I was-- not in good shape when I was there. I went there to die, in pain, and I did so unsuccessfully. Even that aside, it was-- overwhelming. I wanted to... never mind. I explored as best I could in that state. What I realized by the time we met and Emet-Selch left us was that I was being told a story by a man with a message to convey. The details, the few... unnecessary flourishes. What was there was there for a reason."

She closes her eyes. "Creations influenced by their creators-- a being born from the souls of a million martyrs, a desperate bid to craft a world that is whole. The being who became the Oracle of Light-- I cannot call her Minfilia; she was already dead by then in truth-- once spoke to me. Provided _Her_ version of this creation. She told me that once, there was no division between the Light and the Dark; they were as one. But, she said the dark coveted power, thus destroying the balance. And so She bound Him in the moon. She Herself named this as sundering the star-- and by this were the reflections of the Source created, each with its shard of Him. I am not certain if this was her intent or no-- she spoke of the barriers surrounding the Source as being what you would destroy in your Rejoinings. But the way She spoke of the act of sundering... I don't know. It may not matter. At any rate, this is the story as it was _first_ told me. I'm certain you have objections-- but so too do I, and herein lies why _I_ am here today to speak with you."

"I see," says Elidibus thoughtfully. "That would be the way She would tell it. An incomplete thing, as befits Her nature. As well ask a child what it understands of its own birth. Still, if it leads you to a greater understanding, then perhaps its value may extend beyond mere etiological tale. I do wonder what holes Hydaelyn's child might see in Her own story."

Here it comes. The thoughts she has not ever quite aligned into place in her mind. Hydaelyn's litany is to hear, to feel, to think. Time to see if the Mother is willing to put her money where Her mouth is. 

"Some of them, I'm not going to bother voicing to you because I know you'll object. Suffice it to say that I mistrust Zodiark. But after what She did to Minfilia? Yes, I mistrust Hydaelyn, too. Her story as well has a purpose: to guide my thoughts. But that doesn't mean it's untrue. I believe what Emet-Selch told me is _your_ truth. It's tempting to look at the Doom and tie it back to the Word of the Mother's version of things. It would be _easy_ to say that all of this is a power grab, and that you've been had. Depending on the true cause of the Doom, that's still possible-- and that by your own admission Zodiark has done nothing but require more, and more, and more. Yes, I have suspicions. But my concern is with the constructs themselves. Zodiark is an astral creation-- a thing of dynamism and flow. Split, bound, and chained. Boiling over with the souls of those whose choice was to die."

"Hm." Elidibus remains stock-still; chin still resting upon his fingers. Damn these idiot masks of theirs. If she could see just a little bit more-- never mind.

Unfortunate rubs her thumbs over the table. She says softly, "What would I be if I were unmoved by this suffering? Yet I cannot believe your Ardor is the answer-- and not only because of the deaths wrought by Calamities. Hydaelyn too is dying-- She strains and she fades. Weaving the astral and umbral together is my stock-in-trade; everything falls apart if the two are not fitted together. The Ardor _will_ kill Her, eventually. I don't know what will happen if that occurs-- but I think you, Elidibus, have some suspicions about it. Unukalhai is a spy. But he is _not_ a saboteur."

"An interesting conclusion," says Elidibus, unlacing his fingers at last. He straightens, one hand coming to rest upon the table. "The boy is many things."

"Indeed he is," says Unfortunate. "I'm fond of him, if we're being honest, and I'm not much for children. That aside, this is what all of this is about. Your god's pain shakes the world, and I weep for him. I restored Emet-Selch as best I could-- because he seemed to think I would be needed to solve that pain. Because death can be no escape from the moral consequences of bringing so much suffering unto even a partial world. And because I could not bear to think of this history truly dissolving into nothing. He bid me remember, yes-- but that's not what the answer is. To see you labour so in the name of restoring a memory-- I. I am not so certain the souls that were sacrificed would wish to be restored. Not at the cost that you would pay on their behalf. For life, it was done, not to wreak death. A new equilibrium must be forged."

Something damp collects in her lashes. "I have no hope of leading you to abandon your Ardor," Unfortunate says, blinking the moisture away. That odd sensation of aether-pull is so taut it nearly vibrates. "And I will not labour in its name. But I _would_ see a world unbroken. There are sacrifices I am unwilling to make. Prices I am unwilling to pay. The only blood I offer to shed is my own. I am _Hydaelyn's_ sword. But I would see an end to Zodiark's suffering. To that end, I... here I am."

Elidibus and Emet-Selch share a look. Emet-Selch looks away first, his gaze settling on neither his compatriot nor on Unfortunate. "You're hopelessly naive," says Emet-Selch. "Do you truly think that if there were some other, 'nicer' way of going about matters that we would not have done so?"

"Of course you've reviewed other options," says Unfortunate. "But I find it most convenient that the one you chose was the one that involves shoveling even more power down Zodiark's throat. Just like any other primal-- sucking down all the aether it can, long with so many souls that can never be reborn. You gave the star a will to preserve itself, yes. But in its thrashing pain, it will bring ruin in attempting to do so. I. I don't _have_ a plan for this part. If I did, I'd just enact it. But I'm hoping you..."

"Of course." Elidibus exhales a long sigh, and presses his palm to the forehead of his mask. "Of course. For what it is worth, this would not be the first time I have encountered such surmise. Such _controversial_ surmise. Otherwise, I have not been made privy to whatever Emet-Selch had in mind, so I will not speak for him. Nor was I entirely prepared to come here simply to have the Warrior of Light place herself at our disposal."

Neither was she, for that matter. But what else can she _actually_ do right now? "I'm tired," Unfortunate says. "I'm tired of being in the dark on everything-- chasing after whatever fire someone else has set, of trailing in the wake of memories that it _seems_ like I'm expected to have, but that I _don't_. I'm tired of seeing the world suffer. Of course I'm just setting myself up to be used. I've _been_ used ever since that first day under the Sultantree. So. If I'm going to be used, let it be done with awareness that it is so. Let's try a new tack: cooperation."

"We're going to have to discuss this." Elidibus' tone is more of command than query. Interesting.

"Naturally," says Unfortunate. She then pauses, and says more hesitantly, "There was one other thing. Emet-Selch... I did my best with you. But I don't know how well I..."

Emet-Selch folds his arms across his chest. "Considering you had _no idea what you were doing?_ Remarkably well. Though if indeed part of your reasoning for reviving me was _punishment_, I assure you that correcting the flaws in the form you created was a singularly unpleasant experience. Regardless, one _other_ error comes to mind, the nature of which is incontrovertible standing so close to you."

She snaps her attention over to him, looking his robed form up and down. Everything looks in place, but a sensation of pure irritation vibrates that snagged aether. But how...?

"I wondered at first if it was intentional," he says. "Once it became clear _what_ it was. But no: you lack the skill to _intentionally_ tether us together by the aether."

"Oh," says Unfortunate. "I-- oh. Can that... can that be undone?"

He presses the white fall of hair from his face. "Perhaps. I would learn if it can be sooner rather than later. Elidibus. I agree that we have much to discuss of this... development, but I would attempt to resolve this other matter first. I'll seek you out once this is done."

Elidibus turns to Unfortunate. "Was there anything else you required?"

"No," she says. "And-- yes, if I've done... what he said, I think I'd like to see what can be done first."

A long pause while Elidibus glances between the two of them. "Hm," he says, and rises. "Very well. A most intriguing meeting, Warrior. I look forward to our next."

Dark aether engulfs the white-robed Emissary, leaving Unfortunate alone with Emet-Selch.


	23. All That Is Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is not anything other than herself.

Emet-Selch simply _watches_ her for an agonizingly long moment. Looking at her at last, now that they're alone, and moreover: _searching_. For what, Unfortunate has no clue.

Instead, _she_ watches _him_. Invasive questions in the Shroud still a fresh memory in the back of her mind, the heat on her cheeks that burned watching three simultaneous Echo-visions occur still so recent she can feel it even now. One grows accustomed to a certain lack of privacy when spending so much time around others so gifted. Elaborate rules about what you can and can't say to whom. 

Normal to make jokes of it, to laugh at it those uncomfortable battlefield attractions. You have to, really, because what's the alternative when they're all laid bare? The body feels strange things when it's convinced it's about to die, and there's few things more arousing than surviving such a moment. 

But that specific exposure felt like, feels like such a violation now that she's alone with the man once again.

She realizes, dimly, that he _is_ wearing the gloves. Three sharp little claws. Thumb. Forefinger. Middle finger. _Damn it_. She looks away, just as she hears him make a noise in the back of his nose.

"And what would _you_ ever be ashamed of?" Emet-Selch says waspishly.

"Oh." It comes out soft from her, no force. "Of course it goes both ways. Of course it does." Now that she knows what she's feeling for, the aether between them thrums with tangled emotion. Is he experiencing the same mess, or is he feeling something more precise? "I'm sorry." It feels pointless, meaningless to say, and yet...

"You should be," says Emet-Selch. Defensiveness sounds so strange on him. "You have ostensibly done me a great service. I think you will forgive me for that I do not thank you."

The words rise unbidden to her lips. "Regardless of your thanks, you are nonetheless welcome."

Emet-Selch's lips twist into a bitter half-smile. Still his gaze rakes over her, as though he's looking for something. "You should never have been able to accomplish any of this," he says, with a note in his voice that leaves her wondering if he's even talking to her. Loathing pumps itself through their aether-tie, with enough force that it rocks her back in her seat. Other emotion, too, but all nuance is drowned out with that singularly pained sensation of absolute despisement directed wholly and utterly at _her_.

She tries to swallow but feels her throat closing up on itself. But this-- this cannot break her. It must not. "Somehow I did," she says hoarsely, having to force the words out. She straightens, squares her shoulders, resolves to endure this crushing weight of emotion flooding down this bond of aether she unwittingly stitched. This _intentional_ weight, she realizes, and she looks right back up at him, sharply. "Why--" she starts, but as soon as the word leaves her mouth, the feeling fades, leaving her feeling almost hollow inside.

"While we battled," Emet-Selch says, ignoring the half-question, "you did something with your soul. If I'm to have any hope of untangling this mess you've made, I must needs begin there. Tell me _precisely_ what you did."

She purses her lips. The bond is tight and blank, as though he's got it wound around his hand and gripped tightly. Insight strikes her like a flash: he cannot overwhelm her so instead he forcefully clamps _everything_ off, in the name of concealing-- what? Whatever it is he's feeling right now. Better that than confront... Unfortunate rubs her face with her palm, her head throbbing with pain. She focuses instead on his question. "The light in me was burning out-- expended, neutralized. But it was leaving gaping holes behind, holes that had to be mended with-- with something. I gathered up aether that was surrounding me and used that. There was so much, and I was already entranced enough. Deeper than I've ever gone, even; I was calling on languages that I can't even _name_, and that's never happened before."

A strange look crosses Emet-Selch's face. "A͝ęt͞h͡er̕ ̨g̢a҉t̡h͘e͞r̡e҉d͟ ̴in̶ ͢t̕he̵ b͟at̢t̶le̢,̶" he says, and there is an odd timbre to his voice. He doesn't raise it, but it feels as if it's too large for the room. The movements of his lips do not match the meaning she infers.

"Y̧e̵s̷,̷" says Unfortunate, mirroring the oddity of his speech somehow. "I͝ ̢c͘a͡u͝g̸h͢t͡ ̸w̕h͜a̧t̸ w͠a҉s̛ ̵f̕l̵y̶i͠n̛g̴ ̕at̶ ̴m̶e҉ ͞a͝n̵d̴ ͢u͢s͡e͘d ͝it̴ ̶t͢o̢-̛-͠ ̛a̶h͡.͢ ͞Ţh͘a͞t ̛w͞a͠s͡ ̕y̶ǫu͝r̸ ̨a̸et͞h̷e͜r̴, w̶a̸s̴n'͠t ̨i͠t̢?̶" Despite the strangeness, it feels natural in her ears. Fluid; water flowing home.

Emet-Selch recoils as if struck. "You have _no right_\--" he hisses, then cuts himself off abruptly. A bolt of something desperately pained rips through the aether connecting them, stilling almost as soon as it hits her. "Yes. It could only have been. Therein lies the first, but not the only tie you've created." 

Curiosity and compassion war in her. She selects the option that he will doubtless appreciate far less. "What's the matter?" she asks. "If there's something I'm doing _now,_ I don't know what it is. I don't expect you to be happy, but I'd rather not cause you pain." 

"Nothing you are capable of could cause me pain," Emet-Selch lies. "The second tie-- you _shattered_ my soul. Tell me again how you corrected that." 

Unfortunate closes her eyes. Better that than try to deal with how he's looking at her right now. "I used an aetheric spindler to draw out ambient aether into a thread. Tied that to an unaspected crystal that I used as a 'needle'. The shade who was helping me, he pointed out the first few fragments I could start from, and I stitched them together. It's like how I did the repairs to my own soul, but a much larger and much finer scale. Ah, once I got going, I didn't need as much help finding the pieces. I was speaking, and the responses I got-- were not in words exactly, but I understood them. It was as if the pieces I was working with were telling me where they should go. I know that doesn't make much sense, but it's the only way I can describe it."

"I am familiar with the phenomenon," he says in a sharp, tightly restrained tone. "Possibly your own aether wound into the thread, or drawn out as you evoked that... power." 

"My aether bound into your soul, and yours into mine," Unfortunate murmurs. "Tied into the glue holding each together. Is it possible to take that apart?" 

This frown that he makes now seems less personally-directed, at least. "It may be," he says. "It isn't wholly unlike stitching flesh together. I'll need to take a closer look. Now that I know what I'm looking for, I should be able to see it with relative ease. How long do you have this space for?"

She shrugs. "The rest of the evening, I suppose. I've got a personal room just next door that they keep for me here. It's not as spacious as the Pendants, and if anyone saw us heading there together they'd infer things, but if you're concerned about this taking all night or something..."

"Go," he says, making a flicking gesture with his fingers. "And I will follow. None will see me whom I do not wish to see me."

The moment she shuts the door behind herself she feels relief wash through her-- is that her own, or is it his? She leans against the door for a few moments before pushing off and padding over from the Knight to Cloud Nine. She fumbles for her keys along the way, finding them just before she arrives. Mercifully, someone's been in to lay a fire already. She hesitates, then pulls a couple of chairs over to before the hearth.

Unfortunate sits, shutting her eyes, trying not to examine every emotion for that damnable tie she's forged to an Ascian. Tries not to probe the bond to examine whatever he might be inadvertently sending her. Distance seemed to help; she didn't feel anything particularly intensely until they were close together.

Damn it, he noticed her thinking about those _claws_. Fucking Eox, reminding her about those. And the rest.

She perceives the disturbance of aether in time to open her eyes and watch Emet-Selch appear in a swirl of black and purple. He glances around the room disdainfully and then drapes himself over the other chair. "I suppose this will do," he says. 

He'd been almost warm with her before the end. She supposes death will sully anyone's disposition toward their killer, but this feels different, somehow. The way he _looks_ at her is different now. "All right," she says. "Do you need me to do anything?"

"Just be quiet. I need to concentrate. This is far more delicate than you treated it."

"Fine," says Unfortunate. She rises. "I'm putting on some tea, regardless." He studiously ignores her as she goes to fill a kettle and set it by the fire. She _must_ have some real tea here, not this awful Ishgardian stuff. She goes through some drawers until she comes up with a good half-cake of tea, wrapped tightly in paper along with a tea-needle. Unfortunate ignores the vaguely irritated sound by the fire as she carefully loosens tea leaves from the cake.

After a few moments' consideration, she grabs a second cup, too. Just because Emet-Selch has apparently lost any and all sense of manners doesn't mean she has. So armed, she seats herself once more to watch the kettle, trying to ignore the increasing tingling chill that runs over her skin.

Unfortunate's watched pot swiftly boils. She pours a swirl of water into her teapot, a small Yanxian affair made from unglazed clay. She pours it out near the edge of the fire, blinking at the hiss of steam that fogs her spectacles. Almost by rote, she packs the leaves she'd freed up into the teapot, then another swift pour of water. She swirls it then pours it all out into the ashes again. Unfortunate inhales deeply, taking in the mellow, earthy scent as it rises.

One more rinse, and only after that does Unfortunate lets the tea steep. She counts to twenty, then pours two small cups. Emet-Selch accepts one apparently without even thinking about it. Unfortunate refills the pot and leans back in her own seat, slurping her tea. She still senses the Ascian's scrutiny, the tension of aether between them abuzz from whatever it is he's doing to probe it. She squints as she pours the second infusion for the both of them, trying to concentrate. Perhaps if she focuses in just the right way, she can--

"Stop that," says Emet-Selch sharply. "You're interfering with my work."

"I'm just looking," Unfortunate lets his annoyance roll through her and doubtless surge right back at him. "Surely _nothing_ I could do by looking would have any possible impact on anything you're doing."

He sets the cup down on the arm of his chair. "Perhaps that would be so if the mere act of _looking_ for you didn't involve jamming your aetheric fingers into everything. I can't even tell if it's just that this is the present limit of a mortal's capacity or if you're just that clumsy. Look at something else."

She pours again, fingers gripping the handle of the teapot tightly. "Like what? Shall I look at you? The way you've been looking at me, ever since Elidibus left? I don't know _what_ you see when you look at me, but damned if I can't feel it."

"What _I_ see?" Clawed gloves grip the char's arms and he half-rises. The teacup, empty, falls to the floor, rattling as it rolls away. "I see a tawdry little usurper smearing her face with the ashes of a being far nobler than you could hope to comprehend. I have half a mind to simply _rip_ my aether from your soul and let you bleed out where you fall rather than endure one single _second_ more of the perversion that is your very existence."

Unfortunate hisses, her teeth gritted, "Then why don't you go ahead and _do it_."

Emet-Selch lifts one single hand, splays his fingers, then flexes them inward until the tips of his claws brush his palm. The tingling of his attention upon Unfortunate's soul turns into outright burning, a searing agony of force as he presses the measure of his will into the faultlines of her soul and begins to _dig_. She does not cry out, tongue pressing hard to the roof of her mouth. The chair presses hard against her back; she leans into it, and grips the arms as tightly as she can.

Stars flood her vision, exploding into burstlets of pain. Her lips, her tongue move. Sounds emerge that had might as well be a cry of agony."Y̸͘͜͞o̷͝u͞ ̴͟͡͝h̶̨a͏͞v͟e̕͞n̛҉'̶͘͠t̶̶ ̛̕͝c̵̢h͏͏̨̢a͏͠n̶̢g̶͝e͏̕͢͡d̷̨͟ ҉̴a̵͢͡͡͡t͏̡͡ ͢҉a̕̕͜l̴̴̨l҉̨̕͠.̛͟͝ ͏̛I̷̧̛ ̶h̸̨̢̢̕o͡p̶̶̡e̶̛͜͏d҉̢͟͝ ̷̵͘͘t̨̕̕h̴͠a̸̵̡͜͝t̸͘͡ ̶̸̡̛y͢͞oư͟ ̵̷̧͟m̶̧҉͏i͘͜͜͠g͡͏͘͘h̵̡͠t̴̡͜ ̴̧͠h̛̕̕͜a̢̕̕͟͟v̧̧̢̨͢e̴̡͘͠.̴̵̨̢"

All at once the desperate, invasive pain ceases as if it never was. Dimly, she hears the faint _thump_ of Emet-Selch falling back into his seat. Unfortunate blinks away lingering tears of pain, working her tongue around her mouth as if that will somehow make sense of whatever it was that just came out of her mouth.

"_What did you say_?"

"I don't know," says Unfortunate. The aether between them feels like a wound, open and bleeding. She closes her eyes, rather than look at Emet-Selch. "You did know me. Something like me. Why did you stop?"

That defensive note again. "The tie you forged-- I was unable to continue without doing harm to myself."

"That doesn't seem like something that would stop you." Without looking, she pours herself another cup of tea, and does not drink. "I don't know what I was to you, beyond that the memory is clearly a wound that has not healed. And my heart aches for that. I don't-- I don't want to see you suffer. But I will not have the very fact of my existence be used as a lash against me. I am who I am _now_, and if that means that through twelve thousand years of lives someone you once cared about has become something else entirely, that is for _you_ to deal with, and not me."

The anguish that descends upon her clings for what feels like an eternity before he tightens his grip on the bond, shoving the feeling away from her. Moved by--something she can't quite name, Unfortunate rises from her seat and looks down at him. One hand raises, and she drags the back of her knuckles across his dry cheeks.

He closes one hand lightly on her wrist. "Don't," he says softly. The claws meet against each other with a soft little _tick_. Boiling water bubbles in the kettle by the fire.

"Can you untether us?" Unfortunate asks, her fingertips lingering below his eye.

"What you've done?" says Emet-Selch. "Perhaps." He closes his eyes and his hand relaxes faintly. "It will not be trivial, as it must be slowly unwoven. If the aether is simply left to integrate, the tie may fade. Or it may be rendered permanent. I would prefer not to test that."

The bond between them is still. His cheek is cool. Her throat is dry already. "What do you need to do to try?" She doesn't want to move her hand. Looking down at him, she can't help but think-- no.

He doesn't respond for a few moments. Is she somehow inadvertently-- but no, he answers. "I'll need to directly manipulate the aether comprising your soul. You will feel it."

"Let's get this over with," Unfortunate says. On impulse, she bends and briefly rests her lips against the third eye in the centre of his forehead. It is Not a Kiss. She gently tugs her wrist from Emet-Selch's unresisting hand, and then pulls away, bending to pick up his fallen teacup.

She drains her own cup, pours a new infusion of the tea and goes to refill the kettle. A fresh cup for each of them as she sits. "Whenever you're ready," she says.


	24. Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is only a lesson. There is nothing more to it than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the seven tags following 'still canon-valid'. This is your content warning.

Unfortunate sits, teacup held in the palm of her hand, fingers pressed to its rim. "Do you need me to do anything?" she asks. She looks at her teapot instead of at Emet-Selch. Doesn't think of that lingering feeling on her lips. Doesn't rub her wrist absently. The impulse-- was that _her_, or was that something else, something she might have been?

A slow hiss of indrawn breath, and then Emet-Selch says, "No."

She nods, and reinfuses the tea leaves, and waits. It's like the matter of her enlightenment all over again: how much of her will is _her own_? What of her is Hydaelyn's? Or this... person she might once have been. This moment, this room-- did she choose this, or did some long-lost will set her here?

At least she is fairly certain that Hydaelyn did not choose this path, even if She does not oppose it. The spectre of some former life looming over her, however... She realizes ruefully that she knows _precisely_ the correct amount about souls to trouble her to no end, without being able to allay her own fears.

Perhaps there's a way to rationally piece through this. She took in Ardbert's soul, didn't she? Under a great time of stress, but there's been time since. Does she remember a childhood in Norvrandt? Does she remember a meeting with Elidibus, a bid to save a dying world?

Not really. There's a sense of resonance there-- it feels realer than if it were just an anecdote, but she doesn't _remember_ his life. (He died for her, comes the uncomfortable thought. He was already dead, follows the rationalization.)

Unfortunate hisses deeply through her teeth as she feels-- _something--_ touching her. This is not the agony of his claws digging into her very aether. This is a delicate touch, the barest brush through her soul; a pinch at a thread. Her shoulders rise, pulling close against her neck. Her breath skips, catching in her throat.

She feels him _pull_, a slow tease that sends goosebumps rising on her arms, every single bleached-white hair standing at attention. There is nothing physical to this work that he does but it hums throughout her body, radiating from inside out. "Oh," she says, the word sounding so very far away.

"Hush," says Emet-Selch, the aetherial tie between them taut, humming with-- very likely her own tension, her own reaction to the touch against her soul.

She tries to think of anything else, to try to keep herself from peeling like an orange before him. Taxes, groceries, her pet cat. She shivers as she feels him pull again, that tiny stitch of aether holding fast. An echoing sting rings through her being, slow and steady. Pain, yes, but what a pain; it brings a clarity to her vision, a crispness to the breath she inhales.

Abruptly, it stops. Emet-Selch shoots her a withering glare. "Must you?"

She feels the blood slowly drain from her face. "Must I what? I'm not doing anything, I don't think." Aside from, well. Feeling what he's doing. And he _said_ she'd feel it, just not that it would be quite so... so.

He rubs two fingers against his temple. "You're going to need to relax. I can't very well unpick this if your aether squirms the second I touch anything. Surely you can manage _that_ much."

"I'm trying," Unfortunate says, trying not to sigh with relief that he isn't talking about her... reactions. She takes a few deep breaths and rubs her forearms until the goosebumps recede. How can this _feel_ so... she leans over and refills her teacup. "It's a little outside my... How am I supposed to relax when you're poking at me?" She can't even relax at the best of times. And this, when was the last time she felt--.

"Try harder," says Emet-Selch. He leans over for her to refill his cup; she pours without even thinking about it. "Surely this is something you _must_ have learned at some point. You have _some_ capability as a mage. Even a malformed little half-existence like yours should be capable of this."

Unfortunate frowns, refilling the teapot. "No. That isn't particularly necessary to any thaumaturgy I was ever schooled in. Focus, concentration, yes-- but there's no particular emphasis on stilling one's own aether. It's all _there_, after all. One can simply grasp it. And the Mhachi techniques to reach outside the self, those are more about balancing astral and umbral forces against each other and maintaining controlled turbulence. If it stops moving, the trance breaks. Literal trance, not the Allagan sense."

He places his forehead against his palm. "I can't even believe I'm considering this. If I'm to have any hope of untangling this mess you created, you _must_ become capable of at least this trivial measure of control. Since it seems that I must, I will show you."

"You're going to teach me." It comes out flat, not entirely believing what she's hearing.

"I thought you tired of labouring in ignorance, Warrior." The acid mockery of his tone flickers through in the mood the bond presses upon her. "'Tis for the better if you learn a measure of what you're actually doing if you have any hope of following through on your ambitious little scheme, regardless. Come. Still yourself for me as best you can, that I might see what I have to work with. Show me what 'focus' you consider necessary."

She sets her cup aside. "Very well," she says, and closes her eyes. She thinks back to the most basic of her lessons, and takes a slow, deep breath. She reaches, but not far; aligning herself in readiness to draw upon her own aether. The moment before initiating the most basic astral-umbral cycle, waiting for that first spark of will to set things in motion.

Disdain intrudes upon her as Emet-Selch observes her current state. "Hmph. Try to hold steady now."

He gives her no more warning than that before she perceives his aetherial touch once more, feather-light and graceful. She grits her teeth and puts herself in mind of childhood lessons, of running barefoot over coals while maintaining that slack readiness. That had been _easy_. She hadn't felt the coals, moving lightfooted across them. She does feel that desperate closeness, that delicate rake over her aether that she cannot help but _yearn_ towards, sensation that has been so absent from her for so long that even this is--

"I see we have our work cut out for us." His voice is dry as dust; Unfortunate dares sneak a glance at him to see a slight flush warming his features. So she is, in fact, bleeding it all back upon him, and it is exactly what she thinks it feels like.

She tries to calm herself, tries to seize her own aether and draw it smooth. Without warning she feels his presence again, a probing, teasing touch that makes her sit more straight in her seat and her mouth go dry. "Ah, little Warrior," he says, watching her with a cool half-smile. "Are you truly so easy to distract? Your aether writhes if I so much as breathe upon it. Will we need to start even more basic than this?"

"I'm not accustomed to contact," Unfortunate says through her teeth, though she surprises herself at how even her voice is. And what would it feel like, the traitor thought inside her breathes, if he were _trying_ to arouse her, rather than simply discovering that she has been so devoid of contact that a mere metaphorical touch sets her afire? "Aetheric or otherwise."

"Oh?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "That's not what Lahabrea said."

She perceives her aether contract in rise to that bait, but that isn't an implication she can-- "Not with _him._ Not before, and not after,_"_ she says heavily. "And it's been a long time since _he_ would have been there to hear anything of the sort."

"So fragile," he muses, aether pushing lightly against aether. This she holds more fast against, the sensation diffuse rather than those maddening pinpoints. "Better. But still inadequate." A more forceful shove and she loses hold of her aether entirely.

She is _better_ than this. How could she have faced him in battle with such flimsy control? She only feels his amusement grow as her resentment trembles the tie between them. How can it be that _this_ is what leads her to feel with her whole self? He doesn't even have to _try._ The barest aetheric touch by this horrible man who _hates_ her for being, for being _unable_ to be some long-gone other self, for being the living ghost of some traumatic memory. The words fall from her lips before she realizes she's said them. "I want you to hurt me."

Emet-Selch regards her with a cool disaffection. The bond radiates something else entirely. He is _entirely_ willing to invoke pain upon her, but there is also-- what, the echo of her own reactions to him? Surely not his own. His only response is, "How?"

Her gaze settles on his gloves with their three little claws. "Cut me." Her lips tingle with the words; a faint dizziness cradles the back of her head.

The false front doesn't drop. Disinterest is easy for him to evoke in his expression, even if the aetheric tie between them quivers as he glances her up and down with something sharp and predatory. He says breezily, "I can't have you squirming around while I do that."

Unfortunate rises, her skirt swishing about her legs. "I'm sure you can solve that somehow," she says.

"Perhaps I can," he says, giving her one more glance. "I will simply have to hold you down. Or up, as the case may be." As if of their own volition, the straps of her dress fall down her shoulders. Emet-Selch does not move as a force lifts her arms, drawing them free from her dress. The rest stays up, held in place mostly by her chest.

A lash of some dark violet substance coils around each of her wrists. The faintly crystalline material is familiar, she realizes, once used against her as a weapon. The notion is not as disturbing as perhaps it ought to be. They pull her arms high in one sudden jerk; Emet-Selch looks at her thoughtfully before her wrists come together and pull a little bit back, arching the rest of her body forward. A flippant gesture with on hand and she _rises,_ just a little bit, until the sharp heels of her boots are off the ground and she has to focus on her toes to keep from hanging loose in the air.

"Let us consider this a lesson in the basics," he says, standing at last. Does he have to sound so _smug_? "More fundamental even than aether. Immerse yourself in this... form of yours." He flicks his wrist at her, a pointed dismissal of anything of value there. "Shut out _everything_ else. Learn the state of yourself: impress yourself upon it. Direct your attention solely upon yourself." A gesture at her feet, holding fast to the ground only through her own will to keep her legs steady. "If you slip, I will not catch you. And do be silent. If I am made to do that for you, well. You won't like it, and not just from the shame of failing such a simple task."

Ceding control to him was a mistake, Unfortunate knows this now. She'd as soon wrap her hands around his pretty little neck and bend him over one of these chairs and fuck him until he cries-- funny that her mind goes here _now_ when he can surely feel the nature of the urge, if not its specifics. But, oh, how very willing he is to do as she asks, to hurt her, to quicken her mind with pain, to draw out the moment before the very first touch. To drink in her instantaneous regret, her doubt, the anticipation playing physically through her biceps, stretched up and back, the goosebumps that play across her flesh.

"Well then," says Emet-Selch, clearly taking Unfortunate's lack of response for assent. "Let's see what you're _asking_ me to work with." The buttons in back of her bodice pop open, one by one. When the last parts the whole dress slithers to the ground, puddling around the tips of her toes. She hangs, almost bared before him: boots, stockings, smalls. Nothing else to support her chest with the dress and its adamant structure gone.

She is no flawless being, and he _tsks_ critically to see it. Her library of scars stands open for him to peruse, and the frown that curls his lips makes it plain that he finds it wanting. The impalement scar that she pointed out for him a lifetime ago (weeks ago) is but the least of it. Most are faded, pale pink marks against ashen white skin, but it takes so little to stand out against the pallid flesh. Teeth and claws have left their marks where skin once tore and muscle ripped. More elegant, precise stains are left in the wake of weapons: bullets and blades, designed to go in and then out, sharp: less painful until shock fades.

He makes no comment but each glance is a remark upon every line, every raised bit of flesh that _should not be there_ but is now indelibly a part of her being. He lifts a hand high, those claws a fragment of an ilm from touching her neck (but he does not, he will not give her that so easily), her chin lifting reflexively, giving him all the more room to almost but not quite touch. Emet-Selch looks up at her, and there is an undercurrent of smoke to the bland calm of his voice as he says, "Someone's been here before, I see. Many someones."

Unfortunate sets her jaw and says nothing. Instead she concentrates on his _gaze_, falling on her bare skin, raking her with contempt for every visible nick. The heat from the fire warms her right side; her left is cold; the chill that runs through her entirety is the same. Her biceps burn gently with the stretch holding them back; her fingers curl loosely against each other. From the tips of her toes inside her boots, the press of stocking against thigh, the exposure of her skin: she brings her mind to know it all.

Emet-Selch lifts his right hand thoughtfully, one finger raised, the claw on his glove catching the firelight. He looks for all the world like an artist surveying a canvas, preparing to make that first stroke of paint.

He brushes the tip of his claw just below her collarbone and slowly drags it downwards. She feels nothing at all at first, and then the slick of blood seeping from parted flesh, beads of wet crimson leaving behind fading stains. Only then does pain come, a sweet sting that darkens the edges of her vision and chills the breath she hisses inwards through her nose. She clenches her fingers, her arms taut. Unfortunate clamps her lips together and focuses on her toes, refusing to budge them, refusing to give up any sound.

A second cut comes, long enough that she feels it before it crosses the first, sinuously making its way to the edge of her left breast. She cannot suppress a shudder that trembles throughout her body, threatening her balance. The delicate trail of blood _pushes_ downward from the force of the breath coming out of her nose, cold on her damp skin.

While blood trickles down her body, Emet-Selch steps back and smiles: thinly, with precisely half his mouth, as always. "There it is," he says, his voice curling closer. She distances _herself_ from their bond as he circles around her, does it by sinking her awareness into the intersection of the cuts. "You do have a measure of control." Three pinpricks come to a rest on her back, below her shoulder blade. There is heat when he speaks. "Do not let that budge, little Warrior. I will know when you fail."

Her eyes water when he drags the claws, their path _juddering_ in a ragged pattern down her back, her skin weeping with the blood he draws. She holds in a nasal sound tightly, not even daring to breathe lest she make it aloud. Her back arches, making his claws skip against her back, and she imagines she feels her skin peeling away. Her toes _press_ inside her boots, desperate to hold onto the ground, barely managing.

She can tell when she loses grip on the bond by the way he hisses, his breath heavy behind her. Oh, he would _ruin_ this imperfect thing that she is, and have her beg him for it-- she will do no such thing.

Emet-Selch's backhand across her cheek knocks her from her feet, sending her swinging in the air while she struggles for purchase, blood splattering onto the floor. "Only a measure," he says, the smile only in his eyes but no less full of teeth for it. "Stay with the lesson, if you can't run ahead. The physical only."

_Twelve_, but she's wet right now. She can feel it all smearing in her smalls as she tries to grab the floor again but only skids with her boots. She loosens her lips enough to let out a breath, her lungs _demanding_ more air than just her nose will give. Her shoulders burn from carrying her weight; her wrists are strangely well-supported.

He waits for her to steady in the air and places his next cut on her right hip, the newly-cut edge of her smallclothes staining red as he severs them from her body. They fall, the intact leg dragging its way downward. Unfortunate shuts her mouth again; she has given up enough already.

With two claws he drags sharp lines from her pelvis all the way around to her ass-crack, two smooth lines all the way around. She shudders with each breath, her vision wavering with the tears that water from her eyes. Three more lines across her hip cut downwards; her back arches tight and she hisses a breath in through her lips. Ah, sweet Menphina, it _hurts_! And it is all of her being, piercing through the calcified layers of distance built between her and her self.

Her lips move when she feels the tip of that claw against her inner thigh, pressing deep enough into the muscle right there that she feels blood welling around it. He watches her mouth work, smiling sharply; all the more when she forbids any sound from coming out. He drags it upwards, parting sensitive flesh, and Unfortunate cannot contain it: through teeth and curling lips, she emits a thin, nasal sound, dragged out of her as she struggles to swallow it, force it back down her roughened throat.

The claw stops, a hair from her outer lips. His hand shifts and holds steady for a moment before withdrawing. He (mostly) straightens, looking up at her through heavy-lidded eyes, and holds that curved claw upturned before her. He turns his hand; from the claw _drips_ not blood but the clear, viscous _damp_ that she feels oozing over her lower lips. "My my," he says, his voice heavy: the warmth there is something incendiary, a thing to be fled from and never toward. "Is this lesson perhaps less _innocent_ to you than I thought? Is that perhaps why you thought to disregard the task I gave you?"

Her breath comes heavy enough to shake her loose-hanging body, quivering her in the air. Unfortunate shakes her head faintly, though what precisely she denies-- this is no more innocent to him, either; she can _feel_ the mounting need rippling through from him, winding around her pain.

Emet-Selch lifts his hand toward the first two cuts he placed, crossing them both near to where they meet. "Well, I will not have you. Direct your attention here," he says, placing the tip of his claw against the point of the small triangle he's created. "This will be the end of it for today. I trust you will practice on your own. But here, now: focus!"

She has no words for the exquisite pain that rips through the whole of her awareness, that she bathes herself in as he _digs_ under the skin, lifting, peeling, _flensing_ that small bit of flesh away from her body. She chokes again on that thin sound from her throat, air thick and painful as she tries to hold it in. Tears fall desperately from her eyes, clinging in her eyelashes, streaking against her glasses, down her cheeks. The heat in her cunt pulses like it hasn't in ages, a force agonizing in its long absence, gripping her back in a stiff, rigid arch.

He peels the skin away, a fragment less than an ilm square, holding it on the tip of his claw. She blinks down at it hazily, damp still fogging her vision. Then Emet-Selch's hand rises; he parts her lips with his other fingers, and he places it upon her tongue. "To control your aether, you must know your aether," he says, withdrawing his hand. His voice is almost sweet. "To know your aether, you must control yourself. And to control yourself: _know yourself_."

Against her tongue, the bit of her own flesh tastes salty and metallic from sweat and blood. She oozes blood not far from her breast, where he sliced it away. It tastes like exhaustion threaded to determination, doubt and resolve as one.

Unfortunate swallows.

"Good," breathes Emet-Selch. The bonds holding her wrists adjust faintly, allowing her to set weight upon her feet. "We will meet again when you have had time to recover. I will not endure this ridiculous tie you've forged to endure one minute longer than I must, and if I must drag you kicking and screaming-- or soaked and begging, by the look of you-- into the trivial knowledge you must acquire to assist me with undoing it, then I shall do what I must. _Do not_ read into this."

"Nor should you," she says heavily, a strange sensation lingering in her throat, a heat still suffusing her. Emet-Selch snaps once, and her hands are released; she almost stumbles at being fully forced back onto her feet, but catches herself. The soreness of her shoulders wars against the cuts.

He makes a soft 'hmph', the disdain in his eyes and the bond matching, for once. "I'll find you at a time I deem convenient."

And then in a ripple of aether he is gone, leaving Unfortunate alone to stumble toward the tiny bath attached to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took sixty-four thousand words to get here but I finally have two people who don't like each other very much but very much want to erotically hurt each other very badly. I thought I'd get here by chapter three. Slow burns, man.
> 
> ... well crap i misremembered the shape of the top of the yorha caster dress im not editing for that i guess it's some other dress that has also previously been stated as being enough to easily hold in maxheight maxboob roe boobs.


	25. Astral Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are compounded upon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following of the fic's content tags apply to this chapter: bloodplay, knifeplay (but with claws), mild autocannibalism, pain, masturbation, accidental voyeurism (voyeureeism?). If the last one was too much for you, this one is likely to be less intense.

That had been a mistake. He'd let that horrible mortal witch's base, crude desires influence him through that _connection_ she had enacted, and in a moment of weakness, he had chosen to act upon them. There were countless other ways he could have imparted the necessary instruction to her.

He retreats to the set of chambers he keeps for himself in that space adjacent the Chrysalis (someone _finally_ seems to have gone in there and cleaned up the mess). Not his first choice for privacy but also not his last, and no need to ward away dust. Best too if Elidibus doesn't need to go looking for him. 

Emet-Selch waves lamplight into being and drops into a chair, fumbling to open the robes enough to tug aside his smallclothes (he's not a _barbarian,_ after all).

The wave of relief he feels at freeing this body's erection (full-hard, and aching from being so studiously ignored for so long) is infuriating. How dare this flimsy flesh he inhabits make the decision, influenced though it may have been through aether, to find her display so damned _compelling? _

He hesitates over his right glove, and drags his tongue up the underside of the index claw, mindful of the razor's edge. The salt taste of blood mingles with that of the lingering discharge he'd taunted her with, void of any other flavour on his tongue. 

Starting with his little finger, he pinches the tips of his gloves and pulls, carefully grasping the claws to loosen those fingers. He tugs again, drawing his hand free, then repeats the same with his other glove.

Bare fingers wrap the rigid member (it isn't even the right _size!_ Flattering though it might-- no, damn it); he can't hold back a little exhalation of relief as he squeezes, first gently and then more tightly.

He works his hand steadily, expediently, doing his damndest to force his way through the evidence of just how compromised this encounter had left him. The sooner this is over with, the better, and he need no longer concern himself with the pathetic half-existence of a mortal mage dangling in the air before him, form taut and straining for balance, dress in a puddle on the ground around her feet. 

The traitor cock twitches in his hand, smearing messily as he can't help but picture the rivulets of blood trickling down that woman's chest, down and between her snowy breasts. The sudden tension in her bound hands, the way her fingers twitched as she felt the razor-cut of his claw strike-- he _owned_ her in that moment, could have taken whatever he liked.

He will not have her. What is it to him, the way her teeth raked her painted lip as pain transmuted to ecstasy and she choked back sounds, all to hold her cast-iron grip on her focus? Nothing at all. He pumps his hand more emphatically, squeezing on the downstroke, easing on the up. 

Cast iron, brittle and breaking as he cut close to her vulgar, mortal, _drooling_ labia, revealing for all the world (for him and him alone) to see what a pathetic little mess she is, and, ah, the way she had looked at him after he struck her--

The light-tainted (tousled, tumbling against her shoulders) curls all disarrayed, the flush to her cheeks, the dark cosmetics smearing around her jade (the wrong colour!) eyes. He hears a faint grunt come from the back of his throat, an insistence on urgency. Lower, he feels the inexorable rise of the _proof_ of that urgency building.

Yes, yes, if this body would just _get on with it._ His thumb shifts, better rubbing the foreskin against the head of his shaft; he inhales sharply through his nose. 

The tremors that had run through her body as he sliced the bit of flesh free, that drives his hand to work faster, squeeze tighter, leads him to grind up into his hand despite himself. To force that pathetic woman to the heights of ecstasy with such an act of violence, to have driven her to a place where even a feeble mortal mind could know these mysteries of the flesh, the intensity of sensation driving the mind forward. And, ah, the rapture on her face as she had swallowed - no greater an amount than might be peeled from a too-dry lip but in that moment elevated to ritual wonder, the key to a greater being, and she did not hesitate even for a second--

His hips tense, and Emet-Selch unleashes a small gasp. He sets his feet against the ground just so, presses his head against the back of the chair. The pressure building in his cock grows beyond any interest he has in delaying the matter. He looses it into the palm of his hand, the pleasure of it rippling up his spine in a short, sharp wave.

Only after he wipes his palm clean with a handkerchief does he hear the adamant sound of a throat clearing, the insistent nature clear it was not the first attempt. 

With absolute casualness, Emet-Selch disposes of the handkerchief, tucks his cock away and closes up the robes. "How long have you been there?" he asks. 

"Long enough," says Elidibus, in a voice that could dry an ocean into a desert. Is that a pun? It had better not be. _He_ didn't decide the size of the damned thing. He just... kept it that way. "I felt your return and your metaphorical door was wide open. So I thought to discuss matters, only to find you looking for all the world like our last Nabriales shortly after his investiture."

That was a low blow. Emet-Selch counts to three in the name of maintaining composure. "My apologies," he says, rising to face the Emissary. "Recent stress is no excuse for abandoning manners as I did. I am, of course, absolutely mortified at having been sighted so." This last comes in his blandest of deadpans, looking Elidibus straight in the mask.

Elidibus matches him tone-for-tone. "Yes. I see that distortion is still present in your aether, so I imagine it must have been a particularly stressful chat between the two of you."

"_Yes_, actually," says Emet-Selch, letting a measure of ire out. "The tie she inadvertently forged between us is crafted with an uncanny strength. So uncanny I cannot unweave it with _her_ aether so turbulent as it naturally flows. Had she the skill to match, this would be of no difficulty. Regrettably, she does not. As I'd prefer to not hear you lecture me about equilibrium again, rather than carve it out of her soul I opted instead to begin instructing her in how to still herself. So accustomed is she to being seen as 'gifted', it leaves our dear Warrior of Light a most recalcitrant student."

"Recalcitrant," says Elidibus tonelessly. "I see. That does clarify matters."

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and waves off Elidibus with one hand. The other hand. "Did you _have_ an actual purpose in coming to me?"

There's no change in Elidibus' expression, not at all. He's too good for that. "I had thought to discuss the next move now that the Warrior has given herself directly into our hands. But of course the state of your being must take priority, and it seems that will take time to correct. Still, that in and of itself is valuable information. She made such a powerful connection between the two of you, without any relevant knowledge?"

"It seems that she did," Emet-Selch says flatly. He will not give Elidibus any ground to grip on. "From what I observed she seems to simply... do things, with only the barest consideration for if she can, and none for if she should. In truth, she makes for a very _odd_ Champion of Hydaelyn; her very nature cleaves to the astral."

A small frown seizes Elidibus' lips as he seems to give the matter some genuine thought. "I wonder if perhaps... could that be the very thing that draws Hydaelyn to her? Too umbral a force might bring a less chaotic being into stagnation. It _might_ explain why we've never encountered one with such a powerful blessing before. But no being would _naturally_ exist in a state of such disequilibrium as to enable that..."

Well now, this might actually be interesting. Far more interesting than being needled over his indiscretion. "You suspect some manner of unnatural manipulation? It's not unheard of-- though this specific _sort_ of alteration very nearly is. Nor can I fathom how it might be accomplished with the resources of the present day and age."

"A mystery worthy of consideration indeed," says Elidibus. "Perhaps you will gain greater insight as you continue to have intimate contact with her... aether. Have you further considered her potential influence?"

"I have not," Emet-Selch lies, "and I wonder at your insistence on raising the matter. That woman is _nothing_. A foolish little thing toying at powers she cannot hope to comprehend. _That_ is what is important to know of her... influence."

The thoughtful sound that Elidibus makes is the one that he _always_ makes when he thinks he's right about something. "Perhaps so," says Elidibus, his tone too bland to _actually_ convey that he thinks Emet-Selch is wrong, but rendering the message loud and clear regardless. "Such a powerful connection enacted on instinct alone, however, with such an astral nature... that she is blessed and enlightened by Hydaelyn is rather, pardon the pun, unfortunate. We might have made use of such talent and cultivated them into skill had not the Mothercrystal discovered her first."

"We might have," allows Emet-Selch. "But cultural conditioning is quite powerful. If one is raised to believe that wretched creation has the right of things, that would leave our work cut out for us, even in such a hypothetical situation. And she believes thoroughly enough to stand with an intact mind through Her influence." If he could have somehow found her before Hydaelyn had ruined her... He can _see_ the mangled remains of the original shape of that soul in the partial copy she carries. If it had been possible to find her soon enough, to tease that soul back into a shape that somehow resembled... no. No, it isn't worth it to lose himself in such thoughts. 

"Indeed, that is so," says Elidibus, tilting his head in Emet-Selch's direction. "I am concerned for how she seems to be affecting you. I'm not discounting how she cleaves to your aether so, but she herself seems to be the cause of at least some of your disturbance." He sighs and reaches to brush Emet-Selch's hair behind an ear. "Take your time to recover. The First is no longer close to catastrophic collapse. We have time. Do... whatever it is you choose to do with her, as you recover your aether. It will keep her mired, at least." 

"You worry too much," says Emet-Selch, but he can't wholly spurn the gesture. They are only the two of them left, after all. He catches Elidibus' hand, squeezing it lightly as he pushes it away. 

The ghost of a smile flickers over Elidibus' lips. "One of us must, and you refuse to, as ever. Do keep me apprised of the situation. The matter of her disequilibrium intrigues me. She cannot be a unique case. Perhaps I can uncover something." 

A suitable compromise position offered, naturally. "I would very much like to hear if you do. But I think perhaps I will take these free moments and sleep." 

"For once, that may well be wise," says Elidibus. "We'll speak soon." And he removes himself from Emet-Selch's presence. 

Emet-Selch sighs, and belatedly wards the chambers against intrusion and for privacy. Sleep awaits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is now just technobabble, weird porn, and major characters getting relentlessly dunked on by friends and co-workers
> 
> and i guess a load of plot, sure


	26. Evasive Maneuvers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good advice is universal, and as likely to be discarded no matter who receives it. The Echo remains one of the world's greatest inconveniences.

Unfortunate generally disdains private baths for a variety of reasons. For one, she's not exactly body-shy, and for another, a bathtub made for one is rarely large enough to accommodate her for a serious soak. Cloud Nine isn't exactly a luxurious establishment but it caters to a fairly mercenary crowd, so the money that didn't go into furnishings did go into more important things. She wouldn't use this tub for hours on end, but it's big enough to not be too uncomfortable, and the water is _hot_.

While she waits for the tub to fill, she strips the rest of the way and carefully blots her cuts with strips of bandage, though the bleeding has pretty much stopped. Each is clean, even the ones where he purposefully made more jagged cuts; good to know those claws are razor-sharp. She rummages around for the right jar of salve for them; just something that'll promote the flesh growing back together. She has no real reason to believe they won't heal cleanly. Leave a mark for a while, yes, but they'll fade.

She dabs on a bit to the small triangle above her left breast with the larger bit of skin cut out, and winces at that particular pain. The rest can go on after the bath. No point in just washing everything away immediately, after all.

The water is almost too hot, which is just about right as far as she's concerned. She hisses sharply as she lowers into the tub, shifting and bending her knees to get most of her chest underwater. She pulls her ass forward enough to let her head lean back and get properly wet, her hair floating up a bit before it soaks through and sinks.

Now. Now, with hot water stinging at her cuts, she can finally let her thoughts loose and try to make sense of what... happened.

She closes her eyes and slides a hand into the water, down between her legs, feeling testingly at her lips, dabbing a finger inside. Just... feeling, not fishing for a reaction from herself or anything. When was the last time she had actually seen herself through to completion? The night before liberating Doma, maybe, with Hien, or after freeing Ala Mhigo, with Raubahn maybe. Casual encounters; not devoid of emotion, no, and not her first time with either man (nor her last), but also more about the release of energy. Devoid of expectation for a future between them, certainly. Closer to friendship than romance, but in the end neither of those things.

Past that-- she knows her disaffection had been rising steadily for a long time, but only after that had it truly risen to strangle out that aspect of something she truly enjoys. The Burn was the first time she'd realized it, she knows that clearly, remembers chalking it up to sand getting all up into parts where sand has no right to be.

She'd still _enjoyed_ herself, inasmuch as she feels able to enjoy anything when it gets bad for her, but it's been a long time that the moment of release has eluded her. Months definitely; more than she cares to count.

Right up until an Ascian's clawed glove cut it out of her own chest and shoved her over the edge. She moves her hand to palm at the lightly scabbed cut. It aches, from the water, from the pressure, from the pinpoint he'd gouged at the start of the stroke.

This too had not been devoid of emotion, but neither had it been the least bit casual. And the expectation hanging between them... Unfortunate shudders a little under the water.

What was it, then, that did it for her? Just the physical? She's always _liked_ pain, inconvenient as it is for her given her preference to also be in overt control of her partners during encounters. So experiencing that much, that directly is rare and if she actually liked him, she'd consider that a treat, even. (She does, perhaps, think that she might like him, in spite of everything.) But no, that seems unlikely. If it were the cut alone that did it, she could have solved this little problem ages ago.

His touch in her aether prior to it, maybe? That had certainly been absolutely maddening as well... but he'd been leaving well enough alone by the time they'd really gotten to business.

Maybe, just maybe, her body and mind both are entirely too fucked up for her to easily puzzle this one out. Anyway, what's it matter if she can or can't orgasm, or if it has to be ripped out of her by one of her greatest enemies? (She's _offered_ an allyship). She has work to do, and she really, truly shouldn't be wasting the time on something so selfish as that.

It had been nice, though.

She bobs her head under the water, squeezing her eyes tightly shut for a moment.

Anyway, he hates her. Clearly that's not the only thing he feels, but that's the sort of thing that takes precedence. He hates her, and made clear he wasn't going to fuck her, and he didn't even touch her clit, not that he'd needed to. He went along with it to hurt her; that she enjoys it is peripheral. So really. It doesn't matter, anything else. What happened-- what will happen again-- is just a means to an end.

And she _does_ desire the end, as much as the means-- not just the restored privacy of untangling her own aether from his, but the skill to be gained from it... that too is powerful. A finer control over her own aether-- to enact subtleties along with the broad strokes of flame and frost she spreads. Her power is crude and it is cruel. What she can gain from him...

If she does learn what he is trying to impart, he will stop.

Her hairline starts to itch from sweat. She lifts her head back above he water. Her face is wet; of course it is. It was underwater. She sighs and reaches for a cloth so she can gingerly dab at the bloodstains left plain on her skin.

* * *

It's blisteringly hot in Mist when she gets home the next day. Why wouldn't it be? Unfortunate slips inside, hoping Lotus is out. Naturally, she's at the kitchen table, Esty looming over her sandwich.

The cat hops down and runs for Unfortunate, eliminating her last possible hope for stealth. She sighs and bends to scratch the cat's ears as he winds around her legs. "Hi, Lotus," she says. At least it's cooler in here than outside, but she's still slick with sweat just from the walk over.

"Hey--" Lotus starts, then stops, squinting over at her. "Huh. Nice turtleneck."

Ah. Right to the heart of the matter. "Fuck off, I was in Ishgard," says Unfortunate.

Lotus, who full well knows Unfortunate's proclivity for coats, narrows her eyes at this. But there are only so many reasons someone like Unfortunate would come home wearing a turtleneck, so Lotus really doesn't _need_ to ask further.

Which is fine. There's nothing wrong with Lotus knowing she's been up to some violent entertainment. Just... not with who. That would be bad to get into. Very bad. Well, there's no escaping unseen anyway, so she'd might as well get something to eat. The cat goes off to start loudly using the sandbox while Unfortunate strolls over to the kitchen. "Anyway, how're you doing? Sorry again about the moogle bullshit ruining the vacation thing."

"Eh, that's what moogles do," says Lotus, taking a hit off her water-pipe and handing it over to Unfortunate after. "I don't think what happened after was legal. I mean, Eox was there. That's got to count for something. How're you doing? You took off really quick."

"Yeah, I got word about something I was waiting on," says Unfortunate, hoping that doesn't sound half as evasive as she thinks it does. "I kind of needed to drop everything."

"Uh huh," says Lotus, looking once more at Unfortunate's high-necked, cozy, desperately unsuitable for life in a tropical paradise, sweater. Oh good. She just thinks Unfortunate ditched her for an erotic beating.

Unfortunate shrugs. "But... actually, I feel all right. Pretty good, even." That might not even be a lie, which is itself a strange idea.

The look Lotus gives her is a little skeptical, but any sort of further comment is pre-empted by-- oh no. Lotus winces, shutting her eyes. She lifts a hand to her forehead, muttering, "Fucking hells."

Fucking hells is right. Cold prickles run down Unfortunate's spine underneath the sweater. Fuck. Fuck, this time for sure, she's found out. What is she even going to do? What do you say when someone catches you having raised an Ascian from the dead _and then_ gotten stripped and cut up by him? _Yes_, she has a perfectly good reason for it, _but_\--

It occurs, vaguely, that she probably owes Urianger an apology.

Shit. Shit. She glances sidelong at Lotus, waiting for some, any sign that she's coming out of it. But nothing, so Unfortunate busies her hands by making a sandwich. What else can she even do?

She's taking a bite when Lotus finally straightens, hand dropping to her side. She fixes Unfortunate with a Look, not saying anything at all.

"Uh," says Unfortunate, after swallowing. Some smarter part of her shuts down her mouth entirely after that. Her fingers press tighter into the bread.

Lotus takes a minute herself. Finally, she says, "You were that into those gloves that you-- what, you had a pair made, or you found someone who did, or, or, or what?"

That is... not what she expected. "Uh," says Unfortunate. "What?"

"Look, if this is some sort of..." says Lotus, rubbing her forehead. "Look, you remember how Eox got that boyfriend with muttonchops after Nabriales and none of us said anything? It's fine. There's a lot going on. Things get tangled."

Unfortunate buries her face in her hands. "Thal's busted _balls_," she mumbles. Coming off like she has some weird Ascian fetish is almost certainly better than the actual truth, but that doesn't mean it _feels_ any better. "Why are you even seeing that sort of thing."

Instead of giving an answer that she doesn't have, Lotus packs another bowl. Loosing a lungful of smoke after, she says, "It's fine. It's normal. Do you know how long it took before I could look Thancred in the eye after hearing that _voice_ come out of him? He thought I hated him for getting possessed. Or whoever her name was, in Azys Lla. I know you've been... having problems. If it's helping, sure, whatever, of course it's weird, but get it out of your system. It's better than running yourself into the ground."

"Yeah," says Unfortunate. Better just to go with it. She sighs. "Yeah. It's just... yeah, it is weird. But I _do_ feel better. Sorry about, I mean, Echoing it all over you, though."

Lotus shrugs. "Yeah, well. If we could make _that_ do what we wanted we'd all have easier lives. Just don't do anything _really_ stupid, okay?"

Now Unfortunate lifts her head, forcing a weak smile. "No promises," she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You owe it to yourself to listen to German Lahabrea, whose voice is definitely the canon one for Snag. Next time you're in Prae, do it. Do it.


	27. The End and the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On days like this...

Once upon a time, a forest like this would have borne a name. Now all names and maps have been wiped clean. Ended. Unready to begin anew: sown with stolen seeds. The life blossoming here is intended to be an offering.

The man who walks through the forest follows the flows of aether: desperate rivers pumped into new banks, the energy bound into one catastrophic joining of force. Where it goes past this point, he has not determined, but neither is it necessary. He need merely find this single point of failure, the connection that regulates the flow of energy, and disable it so that it might never reach its destination: never reach whomever it is that will be guiding this creation.

The regulator (no longer Shepherd, not since leaving that inky mask behind) awaits in a clearing, seated upon a mossy boulder. Their eyes are shut, visible behind the smooth white mask, and they sit in silence, toying with a crimson bangle held in their hands. They have been waiting for him for a long time. Robes that might once have gleefully altered subtly with the change of seasons are now threadbare, patched, frayed, coming apart at the seams.

He stops just in front of them, and finds that words elude him. He sees the colour of their soul, knows its blues shading through the sunlight. Knows the set of their lips, a frown that does not budge at his approach. Knows the hair, today long and black and loose in the breeze, spilling past their thrown-back hood.

Neither one of them is afraid, though both have contemplated this meeting and considered that perhaps they ought to be.

"To what do I owe the presence of the esteemed Emet-Selch?" they ask him. Their voice is dusty, distant; they speak as though he is a stranger, for that is what has been made of him. It is easier for them to consider it that way: to downplay that his own will was involved in this, too. That wound has not yet healed, if ever it will. 

The man allows the title to define him. But there is no longer any title that suits the person before Emet-Selch. They have rejected those given in honour to them. And he cannot quite bring himself to use the titles now being whispered about them: rebel, destroyer, revolutionary. The name he uses tastes like the ash of a city burned beyond all normal capacity to restore. "You know why I'm here, Chrysanthe." 

Chrysanthe opens their eyes, carnelian as the bracelet in their hands. Rather than look at him, they take in the clearing instead. There is life everywhere around them. It is a beautiful day. Birds sing around them; flowers bloom in the sunlight. They inhale deeply, taking in the scent of earth and moss and flowing water: the scents of a world that too deserves to live. "Do I?" they say. Aether shines through them, pumping, flowing, eternal.

They were always a poor creator: too easily distracted for anything beyond the mundane. Their designs were always too abstract, their schemas difficult to follow for those not expert in their fields. But their role in this is not as creator. They do not act here as designer.

It has always been a painful irony that this solitary, brooding being is driven by this singular purpose: to speak the secret that lies at the heart of the world. To unfold the most primordial of words and raise it up into the light, the kiss of existence upon the brow of all that lives. To hear, to speak, to know this:

That you are not alone.

This secret has become sword and shield both in these desperate times. Chrysanthe wields them now, the confluence of power, guiding from source to creator.

The man whom Chrysanthe once loved reaches out to them, implores, "Come home with me. We can still set things right." He even believes this, though not with his whole heart. Where once he was unwilling, now he is unable to see that they mean-- and perhaps always did-- very different things by what is right. He has never loved their words, never felt the love of solitude war with that desperate need for others, and they have never sought meaning in the depths of the underworld, have never ached for all that has passed from this world.

Chrysanthe shakes their head; Emet-Selch hopes, cruelly, that perhaps they might cry. But they do not, and instead look to the crystalline bracelet in their hands. Delicate abstract flowers float around it, crimson curlicues suspended in perpetual orbit. Chrysanthe places the bracelet in Emet-Selch's outstretched hand, and says the words that can crush a heart, "I think perhaps this suits you now better than it does me."

He clutches the bangle in his hand, face stricken beneath the mask. There is no sign of it in his voice when he says, "Nevertheless, I must implore you to put an end to this creation. If not for what we shared-- then consider how many more must be sacrificed? How many more must die in the name of your cause?"

They smile, if an expression so sorrowful could ever be called such a thing. "Infinitely fewer," they say. "Our lives are worth no more than those that have risen up around us. I will not see those ended in the name of a promise that will never be fulfilled."

Though both came unaccompanied to this place, neither came alone. If anger can be seen in the set of Emet-Selch's mouth, the way he tenses as he stands, then Chrysanthe may ascribe it to something other than the man himself. It is much easier that way.

But he is not uncontrolled. He speaks formally now, the last possible retreat. "In the name of the Convocation of-- Thirteen," he says, his voice catching so subtly only one who knows him intimately might hear it. "I bid you put a stop to this creation you regulate."

The person who had once been one of fourteen laughs now, an agony of knives in the air. "What is done cannot be undone," they say, and they relinquish what hold they had on aether. The flow of power does not, cannot, will not part, is bound to the creation, self-sustaining, no longer in need of a guide. "You are far too late to stop this."

Emet-Selch realizes now what all of this has been about: that he has been baited into a trap. Chrysanthe a distraction too tempting to pass up, too personal for him to allow any other to accept this duty. Because some shred of him believed that he might somehow have been able to persuade them. Perhaps he might have been, had there been a real chance to. "What have you done?" There is horror in his voice now, because his purpose in coming to this place must yet be fulfilled.

They shut their eyes once more, bowing their head. "What must be done," they say, "to save the world that is."

"_Our_ world can still be saved!" He is pleading now; he knows what must come. He knows this is futile. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Chrysanthe shakes their head. They lift one hand and slip their mask off, setting it upon the rock beside them. Barefaced, they sit before Emet-Selch, and open their eyes. "Our world is over. I know why you came. I will not raise a hand against you. But know that even this will not stop what has been set in motion."

He cannot look them in the eye. But he cannot look away. He meets their unwavering crimson gaze and, perhaps without thinking, slips the bangle over his own wrist. "Don't make me do this, Chrysanthe," he says, even as power slowly curls at his feet.

"I am not the one who drives you," says Chrysanthe. In this moment, despite everything, they are unafraid. What comes is inevitable. There is no turning aside from this path: so what purpose fear? Their gaze follows his transformation upward, never wavering. "Perhaps we'll meet again one day. Perhaps things will have changed."

He lets out a quiet breath, one last bid for time in a place with no more time to give. Then he faces Chrysanthe and sets about his task.


	28. Arithmetic Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you let an Ascian into your bathroom, he's going to judge your choice of shampoo.

Letting Lotus believe she'd just picked up a weird boyfriend for embarrassing sex might have been a feint, but there's something about it that feels almost true. Unfortunate's next meeting with Emet-Selch starts with small talk over tea; he doesn't mention what happened before, and she doesn't bring it up. But it's pleasant; she mentions her idle interest in learning marksmanship from the Manufactory, and after commenting on how that might well aid with her focus, he asks what she thinks are genuinely curious questions about the arms being used over there.

She doesn't know a lot, but details as best she can. He seems to understand the bits she remembers better than she does, anyway, and extracts a promise from her to show him the gun and aetheric converter once she gets it. Apparently she's committed now. Well, all right. 

It's almost like a thing normal people do. 

When they move on to the actual lessoning, it's more instructional than before, presumably because now he knows what he's working with. He insists they start at the absolute beginning, with no direct involvement of aether. He does not bid her to stillness but to a strange sort of internal awareness that she struggles and stumbles to comprehend. It feels like it ought to make sense, what he tells her, but she's clearly missing something because he doesn't get even close to satisfied at her attempts.

It's hard to be too surprised given how much of her natural state these days is about a half-step out of sync with her own body, but she finds herself no less frustrated by the result than he does. It's never _stopped_ her from doing anything before, so to encounter something where it's doing just that-- well. She gets angry enough about it that her perception starts to get the edge it needs, but she can't hold onto that.

He ends up leaving in a huff with nothing accomplished and it's honestly hard to blame him for that. She remains seated in silence for a while after that, trying to feel her own fingernails, one at a time. She doesn't have any more success than she did when Emet-Selch was grousing at her about it.

Unfortunate gives up after a while and flops onto the bed. They really do know how to make a good bed in Ishgard, at least. Sturdy. Cozy. She lets her Elia loose and directs her to play some music while she flips through assorted files she has on her tomestone. She picks out a treatise on introductory aetherochemical theory that seems interesting enough. About twenty minutes of that sends her in search of a basic math textbook. Ten minutes of that has her digging up a math book intended for Allagan schoolchildren instead.

Stupid Allagans and their stupid using arcanima as the basis for their stupid technology instead of thaumaturgy. Thaumaturgy doesn't need _math_, she can just understand it and do it.

She leans her head back on a pillow, holding the tomestone up as she repeats her way through a set of multiplication tables, lips moving silently as she tries to commit them to memory. At least she can do _addition_, so long as the numbers aren't too big, or if she has paper to work it out with. Right now she doesn't want to get up, so trying to learn to multiply in her head it is.

Rote memorization feels like a bad way to start, but she sinks herself into it, and lets her thoughts drift around the numbers, trying to follow the patterns so that she can work beyond the table. Her thoughts flow gently as she contemplates an endless tripling of numbers, forward and back as she drills herself. Twos are easy, and fours a simple extrapolation of that, but threes, now. Threes are tricky.

Unfortunate shapes her mind around the math, letting music dull to mere background noise, one thing to track but not closely, feels her fingertips against the cool casing of the tomestone. She builds triangles in her head, equilateral, and lays their tessellations upon her awareness. She feels the smoothness of her dress underneath her ass, the slightly-rough blanket beneath her shoulders. The whole of her aligns as she dedicates herself to this simplest of tasks.

Well, shit. Maybe she can use this.

The next time Emet-Selch comes, she has hot chocolate and an assortment of fruit tarts. He quirks an eyebrow at this. But Unfortunate notices he doesn't turn it down, either. They chat for a while and then he drills her some more; this time she contemplates multiples of six, centering herself within a hexagon of awareness. He demands she hold it through increasingly subtle stimuli and insists she tell him in excruciating detail what he's doing.

She loses her centre about halfway through the exercise and they start from the beginning again. They repeat this more times than Unfortunate can count, until she can barely even keep track of twos, let alone sixes. They end their efforts for the day with her writhing bare-chested on the rough wooden ledge by her window as he takes a thin rattan cane to her, openly berating her ability to only half-accomplish such a simple task as that. He doesn't deign to actually touch her, with either bare or gloved hands, and his only acknowledgement that either one of them is getting anything _else_ out of this (and, oh, can she feel that he is; whether she's more sensitive now or he's hiding less, she doesn't know, but it's _there_) is a single, casual drag of the end of the cane up the soaked crotch of her smallclothes, his hand far enough back that she can't feel its presence.

She's halfway through thinking that this is an incredibly impractical way to find that self-awareness he seems to be driving her toward when he hisses as much down at her, accompanied by the sharp snap of the cane. And she has so very little control like this.

Later, as she carefully picks splinters out of her chest and waits for the tub to fill, she reflects that this feels remarkably like she's being seduced. Surely that's not his goal, intentional or otherwise. But the way he begrudgingly detailed the specific reasons why he'd rained those lashes upon her felt more like backhanded praise than anything else. And, well-- when she'd genuinely frustrated him, he'd just left.

She knows he wants her, even if he isn't acting on it. Directly, anyway. Would she say no if he did?

Unfortunate puts her tweezers aside and gets into the bath.

* * *

This settles into a routine over the next couple weeks. She goes about her business-- spending most of her time in Ishgard, catching up with Undzent when she swings through the Manufactory, and learning how to shoot. Every few days she receives word from Emet-Selch, and they meet in her room. They chat over snacks before getting to work. She goes through multiplication tables up through fifteen, and then begins calculating products of arbitrarily large numbers. The only issue with that is checking her work-- but he seems able to answer when she asks, surprised as he is by her choice of focusing techniques.

"It's simple arithmetic. Surely you must have learned as a child." He seems, somehow, personally offended by her lack of a formal education.

She holds onto her focus as best she can while they talk; it's an odd sort of compartmentalization of thought, and it gets easier the more she does it. "Why? I was never going to be the town merchant. I only learned to read when I passed my apprenticeship and gained the right to read my master's books. I would have been, what, fifteen, sixteen. This was a village out in the mountains, we didn't have a school or anything. We learned what we needed to do what we needed to do."

This seems to agitate him even more. "Out in the moun-- _which_ mountains?"

Why this is such a concern is beyond her, and she frankly doesn't _want_ him to know, but it's a big range, so it's not like it'll hurt. "Abalathia's Spine," she says sullenly. "Sixteen times forty-two-- Six hundred seventy-two?"

"Yes, yes, that's correct. The _Spine_. I knew I should have... but, no, that wouldn't have..."

That's one session that doesn't get much accomplished. Not her fault, that one. She makes decent progress otherwise, though. At least, she thinks she does; while she does need to devote some conscious effort to maintaining that awareness of herself, aligned into steady calm, it gets almost easy and fast. She can talk through it, and hold steady through his attempt to break her not-quite-concentration.

It gets harder still when he takes those clawed gloves to her, or that cane again, or sometimes a thin metal rod that stings marvelously where it strikes. Already in tune with herself, ah, it's so much harder to hold steady. But she manages that too, after enough time pouring herself into it.

"I think," says Emet-Selch eventually, idly tapping a sharp metal claw against her ass, not hard enough to puncture the flesh, "that next time, we will move on to aether. You might even be capable of witnessing a demonstration." He sounds almost fond as he says the last. She _feels_ an odd warmth in the tie between them.

Unfortunate shifts against the wide wooden ledge; she feels the few remaining trickles of blood on her back tilt, spreading their damp. "That good, huh? And while you're up there, I don't mind you working over mostly my back, but I can't reach so well. The least you could do is go and get my salve and put it on."

The weight of the sigh Unfortunate hears is surely exaggerated. "You will have a great deal to unlearn, of that I am certain. We shall break you of the habits that we must in order to extricate ourselves, but don't expect it to be easy just because you've gotten this far. Where do you keep this... salve?"

She tells him, and he shuffles off into the bathroom. She could, perhaps, just get up. There's no real need for her to stay like this while she waits for him, bent over this ledge and showing off her underthings. Unfortunate stays put.

"I suppose I could simply heal those, if you asked," says Emet-Selch, trudging back over to her. "Rather than leaving you to rely on this nonsense."

She shrugs as best as she's able given her position. "You leave clean, surface cuts; nothing you've done really warrants going to the trouble. Just something to help it heal a little faster is all I need-- besides, this way you get to see the marks as they fade."

Emet-Selch makes a low 'hmph'. "You don't need to consider such a thing on my account," he says defensively. He follows with the very sudden and very unexpected swipe of a warm washcloth overtop one of the cuts, making her halfway jump. He swats her ass sharply with his other hand. "Hold _still_ if you want me to do this."

"I never said it was on your account," says Unfortunate, folding her arms to serve as a pillow for her head. Never mind that she can't exactly see her own back.

Which is something that he clearly sees straight through, of course. "Ah. That explains the elaborate array of mirrors I saw. It does _not_ explain the utter lack of anything appropriate for _this_." He pauses after wiping another cut clean and reaches to pluck at her hair. "In the forest, I simply assumed your catastrophic lack of care was due to the circumstances, but now I find that this was not the case. And yet you seem to be growing it."

Heat rises to Unfortunate's cheeks. She starts to shift to look back at him to glare appropriately, but another smack stops her. "My _hair_? I use soap! Why wouldn't I grow it out when I'm not needing to fight all the time?" Certainly she misses the old colour, but...

The cloth thumps to the ledge beside her; Emet-Selch lifts the pot of salve. "Soap. _Soap_. Doubtless the selfsame lye-ridden bar that frankly has no business being used upon _laundry_, let alone flesh or-- perish the thought-- your hair. If one truly needed a proof of your 'blessing', it's in that you're not _bald_."

Unfortunate winces as he rubs the salve over the cuts, the sting of it harder to ignore when she's not contorting into ludicrous positions to apply it herself. She can feel the warmth of his fingers through the gloves, and the faint brush of claw, though he's holding them out of the way. "I think you've let too long being an emperor get to your head. I don't have people to wash my hair with virgin's tears or whatever it is you're used to. I go to the soapmaker and I buy some soap. If I'm feeling fancy, it might have an herb or two in it. That's it."

"You're a _barbarian_," Emet-Selch despairs as he rubs the salve thoroughly into her cuts.

For the first time, he stays until she's fully dressed and composed once more. "Here," she says, bundling up some left-over croissants and pressing them into his hand. "I'll never eat all of these on my own." That's a lie, of course, but it's just what you say, isn't it?

Still, he accepts them, with an odd look on his face. "Thank you, I suppose," he says. "I'll be in touch." He vanishes a moment later in a curl of black and violet aether.

Back still stinging from cuts and the salve, Unfortunate picks up one of the croissants she kept for herself and turns it over in her hands a few times. Not quite ready to do anything that involves pressing her back against anything, she just stands with it.

Her hair is _fine_, dammit.


	29. The Limits of Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a way, this is all Eox's fault. In another, more accurate way, it's Elidibus'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for dubious consent, specifically relating to intoxication and use of a false identity. The text does not consider this an okay move. All involved PCs used with permission, including approval for involvement in said dubiosity.

It's not that Elidibus is displeased by Emet-Selch's revival. The man may _feel_ like more trouble than he's worth more often than not, but that doesn't make it so. All of this, however, is a little too neat. Perhaps the Warrior of Light is sincere in her intentions, perhaps that entangling of aether between the two of them was a legitimate error, perhaps the Mothercrystal is unwilling, unable, or disinterested in stopping Her champion...

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Elidibus would never look a gift horse in the mouth, no. But he would discreetly get that horse to a vet. In this context, that means going over every record he's collected regarding the woman known as Unfortunate Incident.

The reports are more extensive than he'd realized. The earliest mention he can reliably link to her being something from one of Lahabrea's underlings, mentioning a scheme in Ul'dah falling through due to the meddling of an unexpectedly persistent thaumaturge. There's not a lot to these early reports-- Lahabrea had left some notes, but they primarily linger on how he might make use of her to quicken the Heart of Sabik.

If there is anything to be gleaned from that, it is that Emet-Selch's assessment of her as being highly manipulable is and has always been true. Every step she had needed to take in that plan, she had charged right into-- the only flaw being in underestimating her power. Considering the speed of her ascent from simple mage to Paragon of Hydaelyn, Elidibus can't even blame Lahabrea for that misstep. Not anymore, anyway.

His own notes start not long after that debacle, along with records of more dedicated surveillance. The rapid development and refinement of her power-- yes, Elidibus surmises, it's feasible that she might be capable of a conscious act of creation, under extremely favourable circumstances but without a surfeit of crystals. Her study of Mhachi black magic techniques makes it more likely that she could come to this on her own; that lot had always been draining ambient aether from anything they could, when they weren't punching holes to the Thirteenth.

Unukalhai's reports furthermore mention a general fascination with almost anything to come out of ancient Allag. A potentially dangerous fascination, the boy had stressed; unlikely to _knowingly_ do something that would cause disaster, but not all that inclined to spend too long investigating if it might. A walking danger to equilibrium, so heavily weighted to the Light it's nearly beyond fathoming. And yet, it's not impossible that she might wilfully turn aside, knowing the danger she poses.

That she might care for _Zodiark's_ suffering... perhaps whatever interaction she has had with Hydaelyn and Her voices put it in her mind that such a thing is even possible. Yes. The Warrior could well be sincere.

But she is, by her own words, Hydaelyn's sword. Elidibus and the others have certainly had success in turning aside previous champions of the Light, angling them to better purpose. But none so powerful. None had made the approach with so little prompting.

Elidibus knows a scheme when he sees one. The question becomes: whose? Almost certainly not her own. She seems willing enough to use deceit when need be, but she doesn't seem devious enough to concoct such a thing. More likely her sincerity is being exploited. Well, that tracks with everything Unukalhai has said about how the Scions are run.

So, time to look over her known associates. The elezen presently stuck on the First is a likely candidate; the others stranded over there less so. There's a chance Elidibus could get information from him just from asking, but just as much of a chance that will produce nothing. So, subterfuge is more in order. Elidibus reaches out through aether in a gesture of casual summons; mere moments later a meeting is arranged.

* * *

Halmarut's space is typically kept neat, better lit than the corridors, with little figurines positioned cleverly amidst the few exotic plants she tends. With a quick sweep of his gaze across the room, Elidibus sees that the figurines have all been put away and the plants are drooping.

She's waiting for him, unhooded and unmasked, as has become the fashion amongst the sundered. Her auburn hair is mostly pulled back from her face, only showing more plainly how hollow her cheeks have gotten. "Elidibus," she says, a strange note in her voice that, with some dread, Elidibus recognizes as hope. "Is it Deudelaphon? Have you managed to locate her anew?"

There are times when Elidibus has envied those among his colleagues who found that particular connection amongst themselves. This is not one of those times. He loves them all, every one, but it's a love that's grown out of millennia of close work together, and it is a collegial love. If this has perhaps given him a reputation for distance, neither has he found himself so incapacitated by grief. He shakes his head at her. "I'm sorry. I did not intend to give such an impression. I assure you: you will be the first to know."

"No, I shouldn't have assumed," says Halmarut. She takes a breath to compose herself. "Hers is far from the only loss we've seen of late. Should you find anyone at all, I will be well pleased. Or if you would have the man who slew her removed--"

"Again, I forbid it," says Elidibus flatly. "Until we determine what means Gaius Baelsar has uncovered that he is bringing to bear against us, I will not risk you. He serves to more than adequate purpose in destabilizing the Empire, for the moment. Let him work to that end, and spare me the need to search for yet another reincarnated soul."

Suitably chastened, Halmarut lowers her head, a loose fall of hair landing in her eyes. "Of course. My work continues apace, though I have nothing new to mention. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Elidibus has questions about precisely how much she's been doing lately, but lets the matter slide. The shard she's been working on isn't and doesn't need to be in a critical state, and all that he needs from her on the Source is pure observation.

Part of the problem is that unlike most of the other losses of late, Deudelaphon's completely blindsided everyone. She hadn't been engaging with warriors tasked by Hydaelyn with the stagnation of their star. She'd simply been investigating the unexpected losses of several ascended. Potentially dangerous, but nothing to consider a true threat to her soul. So Halmarut being so devastated is no surprise.

If only he could afford to give her the time and space to grieve in whatever manner she deems fitting. The best he can do for her is to keep her busy. "I need a moment of your attention on the First. You have a knack for fae things; I'd like you to apply it there. One of the Scions presently abides in their domain. I would have you set that lot to determine what he's been up to within the past month or so. If he's made any notes within that period, I'd like to know what they were about."

"I should warn you that fae folk are unlikely to be subtle," says Halmarut. "Nor are they likely to be willing to discern important information from the trivial."

"No matter," says Elidibus. "I think it unlikely one could endure living amongst the fae without becoming accustomed to their peculiar unsubtleties. Nor should there be any concern for sorting what they find. Simply inform me what they learn, whatever it may be."

Halmarut makes a small nod. "Consider it done," she says. She passes a hand over her face, in no way improving her mien.

Elidibus lets out a breath, and extends aether around her, offering her what warmth he may. She hesitates but reaches back toward him with her own essential being, sharing with him the sorrow that threatens to consume her. "I would not see you suffer in solitude," he says to her. "If there is anything I can offer to you, simply speak of your need."

The smile she forces is wan. "Half my heart is consigned to the rift, Elidibus. I appreciate your concern, I truly do. But short of returning her to me so that we might begin to rebuild what we shared once more, there is only one thing I ask. The very instant that Baelsar outlives his usefulness: but tell me, and I will make him suffer before he dies. Not only for myself, but for the blow he has dealt to all of us. We can ill afford mythmaking to grow up around his crusade."

She's not wrong, but it's still an excuse. Much as he'd like to allow her revenge, the risk... but that's a decision for another time. "I'll consider it," he says, as truthfully as he can. He gently withdraws from her, extricating his aether.

"Thank you," she says. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will dedicate myself to this task you have for me."

* * *

Elidibus opts for glamour overlaid on physical flesh, a small bit of security offered just to ensure the body he's using won't be recognized. An appearance to be used and discarded.

His quarries spend a great deal of time in the city of Limsa Lominsa, so the illusion he crafts is unremarkable to that locale; a muscular Highlander, dark of hair and eye, skin in a pleasantly deep shade, ambiguous whether it's sun-tanned or natural. He adds some cosmetic scars to bespeak a typical history of bar fights, a repeatedly broken nose, and a crooked lilt to the smile. With sturdy, roughspun clothing, the result is indistinguishable from any other dockworker of that city. He adjusts the voice for a suitable amount of gravel, and modulates an accent somewhere between Ala Mhigan and Limsan, the latter overriding.

A few handfuls of gil in his pocket, and Elidibus takes himself to Vylbrand.

There are a few possible dive bars worth looking into, none of them too far from the waterfront. The first yields nothing, though it does serve to remind him to make some minute adjustments to the aether of the beers his act requires him to down. It wouldn't do to have the body start getting unwieldy.

The second establishment is a little nicer than the first, in that he doesn't think he detects the distinct aroma of rat-drowned-in-beer-keg, and someone has gone to the expense of investing in a pool table that takes up a decent chunk of floor space.

There's also a particularly unlikely group already ensconced at a table; two roegadyn women and a hyuran man, embroiled in a particularly spirited discussion about-- ah. Labour politics.

"Look, all I'm saying is we gotta present a united front. Tataru and the others can't ignore us if we all go to them and demand to be treated like actual fucking people," says the redheaded Hellsguard-- the roommate, Elidibus thinks. He orders a tankard of the bar's third-finest swill.

"I mean, you're not wrong," says the hyur, "but what can we actually demand? It's not like we can just _ignore_ a primal."

"Be willing to try," mutters the Sea Wolf into her beer. "Moogle blood gets in _everything_. Gummed up my aetheric converter so bad it still isn't clean."

The redhead huffs into her beer. "All we're asking for is some simple rules. There's gotta be something we can do. Don't you guys have _any_ ideas?"

Interesting. Of no real consequence-- the primal cycle will continue either way-- but interesting nonetheless. They squabble back and forth for a while, enough for Elidibus to ascertain that the Sea Wolf is mostly just the muscle, the hyur is along for the ride, and the Hellsguard is the brains of this particular cat-herding operation. A vague sympathy pain washes through him, inasmuch as he can feel sympathy for these semi-souls.

Still, if any one of this lot is pulling the Warrior's strings, it's got to be her. More likely it's the elezen on the First, but he'll deal with that tangle when it arises. Right now, this woman seems like a very valid possibility. Trying to effect changes, even if this lot isn't much use-- she might well have found fertile ground in the Warrior for a rather more ambitious project than just the seeds of a labour union. Which is honestly relatively ambitious given the current state of civilization. That's his target, then. If she _is_ the roommate, it's a decent chance to get eyes on the Warrior's personal effects as well.

He's contemplating the best way to make his move when he hears that move being made for him. "Anyway, forget work," says the Midlander, waving his mug around. "We're here to have fun, so let's have fun. I think that guy's been checking you out."

It's with some startlement that Elidibus realizes that 'that guy' is, in fact, him. He doesn't think he's been checking anyone out, but, well, this could be a useful in.

"Yeah, I know," says the Hellsguard. She glances over at him casually; Elidibus raises his beer at her in a way that he thinks doesn't suggest he's been eavesdropping the whole time.

The Midlander actually gets up from his seat to elbow the Hellsguard, earning a snort from the Sea Wolf. "See?" he says. "I told you. I bet he wants to--"

"I know exactly what that means, _Eox_," hisses the Hellsguard, giving the Midlander a shove. Ah. So this is Eox. He has _reports_ about that one. Elidibus crosses him off the mental list of suspects while the two squabble a little more.

As Elidibus contemplates ordering a drink for the woman, Eox simply decides the matter for him by leaving the table and marching right over. "Hey, my buddy Lotus's looking to--" Eox glances around, before seizing on the pool table, "-- shoot a couple rounds of pool. I'm hopeless at the game. You mind subbing in for me?"

Ah. She is the roommate, then. Elidibus takes a split second to gauge the correct ratio of oafishness for his role here against his intended result. "Rather hear from her about it," he says and rises, taking his drink with him to more directly address Lotus. "What do you say?"

Lotus rolls her eyes at Eox, before boldly giving Elidibus the eye now that he's standing. She must like what she sees, because she says, "Yeah, all right. Wanna shoot some pool?"

Elidibus flashes her a grin and saunters over to the table. "It's been a while since I've played," he says. This is true. "I'm probably rusty." This is not.

"Sure, whatever," says Lotus. "Loser buys the next round?"

"Works for me," drawls Elidibus, taking a cue from the wall and passing it to Lotus before taking one for himself. "Rack 'em."

The nature of pool is that it's a combination of two things: basic vector physics and physical control of the body. Neither of these are problems for Elidibus whatsoever. Math has never been his strongest suit, but the requirements of the game are simple enough that he enjoys the immutability of the numbers. Ah, and then the added challenge of trying to elicit a specific reaction... Elidibus overshoots more than a few times, using swagger as salt, and makes a few of his angles just slightly off so as not to make his aim seem so uncanny.

He's enjoying his first free beer and contemplating letting Lotus win the next round, when she says, "Hey, you work around here, yeah? How do you guys deal with the bosses?"

"I don't get real involved," says Elidibus, racking the pool balls. It buys him a few moments to try to remember if this backwards hole of a city-state has outlawed labour organizations or if they're in force here. This place is traditionally an anarchy, isn't it? They must have _something_. "Far as I know we just get a few people to talk to them all nice-like, and if that doesn't work, cargo stops going. If they try to get it going again without the right say-so..."

Lotus makes a disgruntled noise as she takes the break. "What if it's something really important? Say for whatever reason you can't stop working." She takes a few shots, claiming solids, before yielding the table back to Elidibus.

He surveys the lay of the balls before setting his eyes on one he likes. "If it's that important and you stop, seems to me the bosses gotta good reason to fix things fast." Elidibus supposes arranging a work stoppage around primal summonings is an actually difficult moral quandary for one of these people, but that's not exactly his problem.

"Yeah, but it's complicated," says Lotus, who starts patting her pockets. "Shit. Shit. I'm sick of dealing with this bullshit. You got a smoke I can borrow?"

Elidibus goes through his own pockets as a cover for creating a rolled joint of fogweed, of a particularly potent strain. "Yeah, here," he says, handing it over to her.

Lotus takes it, slides it between her lips, and lets a lick of crimson flame from her thumb catch the end of it. "Thanks. You're all right."

He purposefully errs on a shot, yielding the board. "What is that, some kinda thaumaturgical something or other?"

"Red magic!" she says proudly, taking aim and making a decent bank shot. She takes a deep hit. "Shit, that's good. Where'd you get this?"

"Fell off the back of a cart," says Elidibus, getting a better feel for his 'character'. Emet-Selch may be the one for theatre, but Elidibus is by far the better _actor_. "Think it's Hingan or something. Red magic, that's, what, like them old Crimson Duelists used to do?"

She perks up visibly at this. "Yeah," she says, missing her shot. "You heard about them?"

Elidibus takes aim for a particularly ambitious trick shot. How old is this dockworker he's concocting? Maybe about thirty. Therefore... "Seen 'em! They helped me and my ma get out of Ala Mhigo when things got ugly. One of them got her a job as a caravan guard and some names here in Limsa. Wouldn't be here without them."

"Well, how about that," says Lotus, finishing off her joint. "Yeah, I learned from the last of 'em. Keep hearing about people he helped. 'S nice to be appreciated."

The next shot Elidibus makes would be a tactical misstep if he were trying to win, leaving Lotus with a clear shot lined up once he misses his follow-up. "They've done a lot of good," he says. "Shame there's only one left. You're not...?"

Lotus hems and haws over the table before settling on the shot that Elidibus 'accidentally' left wide open for her. "Sometimes I think I oughta. Just walk away from everything else, never look at a black or white mage again. Or a primal."

The particulars of the War of the Magi is definitely beyond this persona's awareness. Has he heard of black or white mages at all? Maybe as children's stories. "Didn't Voidsent eat all of them or something like that?" he asks, settling on a particularly likely scare-the-child-to-sleep scenario. "Wait, what, primals?"

"Bloody wish they had," Lotus mutters, sinking her last ball and then taking aim at the eight. "No, it's hard to explain if you don't know magic. So red magic was invented cause, you know, black and white magic fucked up the world. Red's kind of like a balance between the two. Then people came up with thaumaturgy and conjury, which are, I dunno, baby versions of the other stuff. Then you got some people coming up with black and white again which, no thank you. That's game, your round." She sinks the eight-ball with relative ease.

Elidibus nods along with Lotus in a good semblance of feigning interest and understanding, then waves at the bartender to keep the drinks coming. Well, if it's any of this lot, it's her. The next step is just to separate her from the rest of the group, discreetly extract the information he's looking for, and make a getaway. He starts gathering up the pool balls to re-rack them.

"Anyway," says Lotus, claiming her beer. "Yeah, I guess it's my job right now to fight primals. The pay's shit, the bosses act like you're a rock they can just throw at giant god-monsters, and you get called up to work pretty much whenever someone feels like summoning something. I mean, yeah, it's important, but..."

An angle starts to assemble in Elidibus' head. A somewhat distasteful angle, but if all goes well, no real harm will be done and he'll still get what he needs without alerting her to his investigation. "_You_ fight primals?" he says, letting a bit of awe filter into his voice. "Were you here when Leviathan...?"

"Yeah, I helped fight Leviathan," says Lotus. "Him and a bunch of others. You wouldn't fuckin' know it the way we keep getting jerked around."

A crooked grin settles onto Elidibus' lips. "Well, lemme say thank you. I was working the day his ugly head came up, and I ain't gonna lie, I thought I was dead. You saved my life, and a whole lot'f other people's."

That does brighten Lotus somewhat. "Thanks for saying so," she says. "Most people don't bother. You gonna break, or not?"

* * *

One thing leads to another, and Elidibus ends up in a little house halfway up a hill in Mist, a heroic amount of fogweed pleasantly suffusing this body, with his head buried between the legs of the Warrior of Light's bosom companion. This, he is a little rusty at, but he doesn't hear any complaining about his technique. Quite the opposite, even.

He plies his tongue against her as best as he's able, discarding acting in this instance in favour of actual competence at his task. He squeezes one thick thigh as it pulls him in tighter, then lifts his other hand, pressing two fingers inside of her.

Lotus' legs squeeze him in tight enough that the body starts to come up short on air, but Elidibus makes do, and squeezes his lips tight around her clitoris, tongue swirling at the hood and then past it. He keeps it up, pressing his head in tight until she finally releases him with a few good moans, and he can withdraw his soaking face. He lets the body gasp for air on its own reflexes.

He's still letting the body catch its breath when he finds himself flipped onto his back, the roegadyn woman straddling his hips. Well, he can't very well object to this, and the body would get cranky if he didn't, so Elidibus 'steps back', letting the vessel do the work, hips straining upward as she rides atop him, her arms reaching upward to the low loft ceiling above. He'd might as well enjoy it, even if it's like feeling everything through a glove, as uninvested in the form as he is.

It's pleasant all the same. He reaches to hold onto her firm backside, squeezing it and pulling her down towards him, though there's precious little he can add to what she's already doing that way. The body makes a few low sounds as the pressure builds; his back arches as he strains up into her. Release comes and he lets a groan leave the body's throat, making a little shiver that runs from head to toe.

She pulls off of him, and he uses his fingers to help finish her off the rest of the way; she looks a little surprised by that, but appreciative.

When they're all finished, she falls back onto the bed, muzzy-eyed and bleary; he affects a similar look but waits, silently, disregarding the body's wishes for rest. When he's sure she's asleep, he reaches out with gentle aetherial fingers, slipping into her slackened mind and searching for anything he can find about the situation with the Warrior's apparent intentions for Zodiark.

Her aether is neatly aligned, kept in a fluid equilibrial state that makes it easy for him to look-- but he finds nothing at all. Not of relevance, anyway. Not only is she not behind the Warrior's current role, she seems totally ignorant. And not a little bit frustrated by her obvious evasiveness. It's possible she's better at hiding things than that, but that's very unlikely.

Perhaps the elezen is the one after all, then. Still, while he's here, he can take advantage of the opportunity to go through the Warrior of Light's personal effects. Elidibus slips away from Lotus as carefully as he can, and pads barefoot to the upper level of the split basement.

Elidibus doesn't know why he's surprised that the Warrior of Light is a slob. Laundry more strewn than piled, stacks of books, a precarious stack of glamour prisms... An intimate implement lies openly on top of the bed, and another pokes out beneath it, and a small stack of pornographic Allagan tablets sits on the bedside table atop some disorganized note paper.

Very gingerly, he slides the paper free. The top couple sheets are blank, but under that are some doodles that are telling.

Well, the Warrior is _definitely_ sincere. Perhaps this is her own idea...

Something warm and soft winds its way around his ankles. Elidibus starts, then looks down to see a brown tabby cat rubbing up against him. He bends to rub the cat's face, scratching against the neck. Cats are best treated with by appeasement, he's always found. A companionable rumble suffuses the cat, who opens its mouth to yawn or-- no, that's a meow.

Elidibus pets harder, in the hopes of silencing the cat. It does not: the cat meows again, louder, and rubs harder against his leg. Fur comes away against Elidibus' fingers. Oh, no, the cat is shedding. It makes another loud, pleased meow at the loose hair getting pulled away.

Below him, he hears Lotus stirring. Elidibus briefly tries to consider a good excuse for getting caught up here, though he doesn't stop petting the cat-- that's as much a part of the cover as anything else. But Lotus doesn't give him much time to think further, doing a full backflip up and over the railing onto the loft, rattling the screen that gives the bed privacy. Just before she shoves it aside, folding it, and points the tip of a sword right at his throat, forcing him to stand straight.

The cat resumes rubbing his legs, shedding against them.

"What in every hell are you doing up here?" says Lotus, still nude, pressing forward with the sword. With her free hand she leans forward to yank the pages out of Elidibus' hand. "What do you have there?"

Elidibus just stays quiet, swallowing against the tip of the rapier. Lotus keeps one eye on him and glances down at the doodle. Confusion washes across her face-- followed almost immediately by pain. The sword wavers against Elidibus' throat. He can feel the swirl of aether that accompanies the uncontrolled surge of the Echo.

This seems like an opportunity to make a getaway-- he'd certainly feel no compunction about disabling her, or just shedding the body and leaving, but that might be less than productive in the long run. Maybe he can work with this. So Elidibus waits, while the cat claws his leg. He extends his arms as best he can, and the cat leaps up, shedding against his chest. The sword doesn't seem to bother the cat at all.

Clarity returns to Lotus' eyes, and the blood drains from her cheeks. "What is she-- who are _you_\-- oh no."

"If you'd like," says Elidibus, scratching the contented cat's cheek, "simply a dockworker with whom you shared a pleasant evening."

Lotus draws the sword back just enough to give her room to wave it wildly. "Yeah, well, what if I _don't_ like?"

Interesting. Very interesting. What _did_ she see via the Echo? "Hm," says Elidibus. It's a bit more impulsive of a move than he cares for, but he can work with this. He flares his sigil into life in front of his face.

She stumbles backward as she sees it. "No. No."

Elidibus lets the sigil fade. "Though I am not properly attired as such, I am here only as an emissary. I have no particular intention of harming you, unless it comes to a matter of self-defense." The cat starts squirming in his arms, so he bends, letting it down.

Lotus sits heavily on the ledge of the railing, looking up at him all owl-eyed. "You got me _high_ and then we _fucked_," she says hoarsely.

"Ah." A vaguely sheepish smile crosses his lips. "For what that is worth, I did not intend to deceive you. In that particular manner. I'm certain that's no comfort to you."

"You're damn right it's not," says Lotus thinly. "What... why...?" The cat walks over to her, rubbing up against her legs.

Elidibus lifts a finger. "Answer a question for me first. What did the Echo just show you?"

With the state she's in now, Lotus just complies. "I-- it was Unfortunate. She was doodling and another one of you appeared and-- oh no. Oh no."

He watches her face thoughtfully, as it moves through varying shades of horror, fear, and generalized upset. "You really don't know anything at all about it," Elidibus says aloud; a line for her to seize upon.

"Don't know about _what_?" A rush of anger takes hold of Lotus' expression, and she stands abruptly. "What the fuck is Unfortunate _doing_?"

Elidibus tilts his head. "If I had the clarity I wished on that matter, I would not have troubled you at all. I assure you-- I intend you no harm, at least this evening. As for what she and my colleague are up to-- I suspect she can answer that far better than I can. I came seeking answers myself, or at least direction. You have not provided me with any."

Lotus stalks for the stairs down to the ground. "Shit. Where did I stick her pearl? I'm gonna murder her. Fuck her. You-- stay right there. No, come and put your damn pants back on."

He follows somewhat bemusedly behind her, letting robes and mask flow into being from nothingness around him, though he keeps the glamour over his form intact. Lotus stumbles back into him at the door to her room when she pauses for a moment, and nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees him fully attired. He smiles as reassuringly as he can, and appropriately she doesn't look reassured at all as she stumbles back in to pull her own clothes back on and fumble through some drawers looking for the linkpearl.

While he waits, Elidibus picks up the clothes he'd been using prior, and disincorporates them, letting the component aether drift away in the air. The cat marches right back up to him and meows loudly. He sighs, and picks it back up, stroking through the shedding fur with his clawed gloves.

Lotus pulls out a pearl from the drawer and fits it to her ear. "Unfortunate? Unfortunate!" A pause. "I don't give a shit. We need to talk. In person." Another moment or two. "No. Get your ass home _now_. I mean it." She throws the pearl at the wall and makes a disgusted sigh when she looks back to the Ascian standing a few fulms from her, petting her very contented cat.

"Shall I leave you to it?" says Elidibus, intending that she will insist on the exact opposite.

"Like fuck you're going anywhere," says Lotus. "But we're not staying in my bedroom, that's for damn sure. Upstairs. Now."

He follows behind and permits himself to be deposited in the cramped library near the stairs. He places the cat onto the lone seat and idly peruses the collection. Lotus looms just outside, glaring resolutely at the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious, the house is Mist ward 1, plot 24, on Excalibur. Guestbook in the hall closet.


	30. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, they will be functional adults. But not on any of these days.

The halls are bustling, filled with other students shuffling to their newly assigned living spaces. Chrysanthe shifts the box of robes in their arms as they peer at each door in turn, looking for their own. The noise pounds at their skull, threatening to turn annoyance into a full-blown headache. With luck things will ease once they get some space to themself.

At last, they find the right door. It opens to their will and they step into a small common area where a soft couch and some armchairs look to have been provided, along with a low table. A bright wide window lets in the afternoon light, shaded by the trees outside. A little kitchen is off to one side, and a hallway on the other. "Hello?" calls Chrysanthe, carrying their box down the hall.

Two of the doors are shut; one is slightly ajar to a bedroom. Their other two boxes are already waiting within. This must be it, then. Chrysanthe leaves the door open as they hang up their robes in the closet and place their textbooks upon the provided shelf. They don't really have a lot to unpack, so they go out of their way to do so neatly. After all, it's basically their only chance. Once things get out of place, there's going to be no recovering it. This, they know without question.

They're setting their spare masks carefully on a little rack on top of the dresser when they hear the sound of the front door opening. They sense the sounds of two people-- well, that had better be their assigned roommates, or Chrysanthe will be quite upset at the intrusion. They shut their eyes, trying to close out the noise around them and focus on those nearby.

The one of them has a sound profile that fills the space around them, bold; bright but not sharp. Not loud, per se, but big. Likely to be inescapable, even when they're not trying to be intrusive. Chrysanthe's temples throb just contemplating the notion. Well, most of the point of the shared living here is to forge ties with fellow students, cement the bonds of understanding, and a thousand other things listed out in the pamphlets. Fine. It'll be good for them. Somehow.

The other is reserved, sounds coiled up around themselves as if attempting to be unobtrusive. It isn't-- cannot be-- effective, not to someone with Chrysanthe's heightened aural senses, but they wonder if that works on other people. Still, they appreciate the desire to be left alone that laces the sound. Should be far more tolerable than living with an, ugh, _people person_. One for two could be far worse.

They straighten their hood and poke their head out into the hall. "Hello?" they call again.

An arm waves out from the kitchen. "Over here!" calls the bolder one.

Chrysanthe takes a breath and heads over, finding the two of them putting away a load of groceries. "Ah," they say, smoothing down their robes with their hands. "Hello. I assume you're my roommates. I'm Chrysanthe. I'm intending to study linguistics, though I haven't narrowed my field yet." Their conjugations are precise, emphasizing the relatively uncommon absence of any gendered forms whatsoever. There is no such convention that suits them.

The taller of the two-- the bold-sounding one, gangly, wrists poking out of sleeves-- pauses in putting the groceries away. "Sorry, if I'd known you were going to be here so soon, I'd have waited so I could show you where the commissary is. At any rate, I'm Hythlodaeus. Phantomology." So close, it takes effort to bring their hearing in sync with the myriad frequencies that comprise a living voice, to mentally assemble the harmonics into one complete waveform. Masculine forms; they make the appropriate mental adjustments.

"I'm sure I'll get the chance. Good to meet you," says Chrysanthe, tilting their head toward Hythlodaeus before turning to their other roommate. "And you?"

"Hades," says the other. A shock of white hair falls against their cheek as they dip their head forward. "I'll be studying divination. Sciomancy in particular." Masculine again. Well, all right. He's trickier to parse, the words he speaks laced with a litany in the subharmonics of go-away-and-leave-me-alone.

"Sciomancy?" Chrysanthe says, regardless. "How unusual."

Hythlodaeus answers for Hades, tearing off a small branch of grapes from the greater bunch. "It turns out that we've both the eyes of the Underworld-- devoting study to it seems like such a way to bleed off the joy from it, but I suppose some have to learn more about it, hmm? Not that there's anything wrong with wanting to learn more of it, of course. But I could never do it." He picks a grape off the stem with his teeth.

Hades shrugs. "It seems wasteful to have such a talent and let it lie fallow," he says, and elaborates no further.

"I was starting to wonder why we're together," says Chrysanthe, the pieces starting to assemble before them. "Hmm, what's the poetic form? I hear the words at the heart of the world. In a way it is what led me to study language, though the tie is far less direct than one might think. _Those_ words so rarely have conscious thought to them, after all."

"Fascinating," says Hythlodaeus, nodding along. "I've never heard of that particular gift. You'll have to tell me about it. Oh! And we should all go over our schedules. The Akademia is huge. It's best if we reserve getting lost for before classes begin."

Hades shoots Chrysanthe a pained glance as they both trot out of the kitchen behind Hythlodaeus. Chrysanthe makes a sheepish smile and a shrug. Perhaps they'll share their schema for earplugs later on.

* * *

Honestly, he's not that bad once Chrysanthe gets used to him. The worst part isn't the aura of sound around him, which mostly fades into a background buzz they can filter, but the persistent _dank_ that lingers around the door to Hythlodaeus' room. Hades is worse, really; he hoards plates in his room until after Chrysanthe or Hythlodaeus end up creating more, and only then does he return them, leaving them with a cabinet entirely too full of plates. He tries to claim it's not his hair that clogs the shower drain, but his sin is laid bare when the knot Hythlodaeus eventually yanks free proves to be white. Well, grey, really, after that long. But still.

For Hades' part, he seems to object to Chrysanthe bringing their girlfriend over to stay the night-- but, well, that proves to be a self-solving problem after about a year or so. And the way they leave their freshly-laundered robes to dry draped over the living-room furniture, not that he ever seems to use it anyway.

Still. The both of them are awfully helpful when they struggle to keep up with the practical sections of Introductory Creation (very much a misnomer, and very much a class that Chrysanthe wants to comport themself well in-- the instructor is Lahabrea _himself_! They'd never imagined someone like him would lower himself to teaching relative novices, but he does this often, they're told), and it helps them to try to tutor Hythlodaeus in the calculus that he struggles in. That, Chrysanthe knows nearly innately, the grace of curves and the separation of waves into the myriad harmonic components.

They find themself learning to value the presence of others, even as they learn how to draw boundaries to separate themself from them.

Thus, the sudden _absence_ of one they expect creates an odd, unfamiliar gap. Chrysanthe arrives home one afternoon, dropping their armload of books in the hall. Hythlodaeus lounges on the couch, eating a large watermelon, but the other sound is nowhere within earshot. "Where's Hades?" they ask, throwing themself down onto a chair. "He's hardly around at all lately."

"I haven't seen much of you, either," says Hythlodaeus, picking his book back up with his free hand. "But you're right. He hasn't told me where he's been, though. What did you need him for?"

Chrysanthe throws back their hood, running their fingers through their hair, short and black. "I haven't been away by choice. _Apparently_ Arycelle told Theodoros that it was over between them, and I've had to be the one to nurse him through it. Because every single one of his other friends has more sense than I do."

"Wait, Arycelle? The artist in Inorganic Design with us? I thought he was with--"

"_Exactly._" Chrysanthe rubs their face with one hand, mask jostling slightly. "They both found out. Apparently Arycelle was the one he cared about, though clearly _not_ enough to actually be upfront about any of this."

Hythlodaeus puts his watermelon down and sits up straighter. "And you're humouring him? Why exactly haven't you told him that--"

"-- that he's _completely_ in the wrong?" Chrysanthe sighs. "Because I need someone to read over my analysis of this play that I don't care about before I turn it in, and _Hades_ is nowhere to be found."

"I could read it for you."

Chrysanthe looks him dead in the face. "No."

"What?"

"I've _read_ your papers, Hythlodaeus. Of all your talents, literary analysis is _not_ one of them."

"That sword _was_ symbolic."

"Of the divide between the kingdoms! Not Anthousa's unrequited lust for Hesiodos!"

He picks the watermelon back up. "In a way, weren't those two the same things in the end?"

"No. No they weren't." Chrysanthe flops back in their chair, sighing disgustedly. They consider pursuing the argument, but the front door cracks open. Hades slinks his way inside, accompanied by a song of annoyance at the living room being occupied by people who would _notice_ him. Chrysanthe tilts their head in his direction. "_There_ you are. I've been trying to get a hold of you."

Hades stops, partway to the hall. His shoulders slump at having been so _cruelly_ noticed. "Ah. Of course you have. With what would you impose upon my time?"

Chrysanthe raises their eyebrows behind their mask. "I was just hoping for some eyes on a paper I've been working on-- but I've also been wondering where you've been. You're so scarce lately."

"You mean to say you didn't _overhear_ anything?" Hades says peevishly. "If you _must_ know, I've been spending time with a friend."

Hythlodaeus nearly drops his watermelon. "What, _you_? A friend?"

The sound of Hades' teeth grinding must be obvious even to Hythlodaeus, but Chrysanthe, at least, cannot mistake it. "This is why I never said anything," says Hades, through gritted teeth. "I'm not about to subject anyone to your... gawking, or _your_ listening."

"Ah, so we can't even happy for you," says Chrysanthe, rolling their eyes. "Keep it to yourself if you want, but it's _good_ if you're seeing someone, you know." Even if it's a little hard to believe. Well, that's why it's good, really. If someone can get him out of his shell... "So what's her name?"

"_Ugh_."

* * *

Chrysanthe curls their fingers around the specification sheets, waiting for the lecture hall to clear out before approaching the red-masked instructor at the front. They really shouldn't be nervous. They know this. And yet... "You wanted to see me, sir?"

As soon as he sees them, Lahabrea smiles. "Chrysanthe. Yes." Somehow he memorizes every student's name unerringly. "I wanted to talk about this most recent assignment. These technical specifications you submitted are marvelous. However, you will notice that when I returned those, I did not return the matrix you submitted along side." He reaches into a pocket and draws out the small crystal into which they'd inscribed the necessary information.

They swallow, clutching the papers tight enough to rumple at the edges. "Ah, what about it?"

Lahabrea shakes his head. "Don't trouble yourself overmuch. But did you have assistance with scribing the matrix?"

It's hard to be untroubled by such a question. "Yes," they say. "Is-- is there a problem with that?"

"Not as such," says Lahabrea, placing the matrix down on the desk. "But it speaks to a concern I've felt in seeing and evaluating your work. Your conceptual work-- your specifications in particular-- is excellent. Consequently, the gap between that and your skills at actual creation... Please understand. I have no desire to offer undue criticism of your work."

The air hisses out of Chrysanthe, and they sag. "But I'm utterly incapable of actually producing anything that I specify."

"_Are_ you?"

Chrysanthe sighs. "At the least, I primarily frustrate myself when I try. Something familiar or uncomplicated-- I can do that easily enough. Or muddle my way through more complex conceptions. But honestly, for those more complex notions... I have such a difficult time holding my train of thought. I'll find myself occupied with a bit of minutiae within the concept, or something around me will distract me, or... any number of things. I realize this is anything anyone must learn to overcome when creating, but everyone else seems so much _better_ at it, I..."

"Let's go to my office," says Lahabrea, waving them along. "It's true, of course, that anyone must learn to contend with the problem of focus when working. Everyone is not equally able to do so, however. It _is_ possible to learn, if you so choose. You... I believe you are a student of Iraneus', yes? Societal harmony and language?"

They nearly trip over their own feet. Does he pay this much attention to every student? Or has the head of their _own_ department been talking? They can't be _that_ bad, can they? Chrysanthe coughs lightly. "Ah. Yes."

The thoughtful noise Lahabrea makes seems to drag out for minutes. He steers them into his office, holding the door open for them. "If that is a path you intend to pursue for any great length of time, then the matter of focus is of no great concern. Even when the field is practical, it is not one of complex creation. For my part as your instructor in creation, you have more than a satisfactory grasp of the subject matter-- so do not fear for your grades." He turns to peer at a bookshelf, evidently looking for something specific. "Irenaeus will think I am poaching, I'm certain. But it seems a point of frustration for you, and I must admit that I am curious at what you might be capable of... There are some exercises that I know have helped some others of my students. Do not consider this even a request on my part, but should you wish to learn to work with this, hmm, mental block of yours, I have resources I am willing to offer. Here-- this is basic, and likely contains things you've tried before if you have at all, but I found it to be a helpful starting point." He removes a book from the shelf and extends it to Chrysanthe.

They accept the book and look down at it, running their thumbs over the edges. It seems to be, exactly as he suggested, a slim book of exercises for focusing through creating. "In truth, I've mostly struggled through it myself. Anything guided at all may be of assistance," Chrysanthe says, and sighs. "I've got so many other things to be doing-- I cannot promise my full attention. But it seems worth a try. After all, how long could it possibly take to learn?"

Lahabrea smiles. "That most unwise of questions-- is the answer not always a lifetime?"

"To listen to my roommates, it could even be more than that," Chrysanthe says, and chuckles. "Thank you. I'll give this a try."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this chapter! Holiday obligations are what they are, and all.
> 
> * * *
> 
> From the lovely [AuntAgony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuntAgony/pseuds/AuntAgony), home of the Lotus Eater, we have this lovely picture of [Unfortunate Incident and Emet-Selch together](https://i.imgur.com/fYe0Kr0.jpg).
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'll be happy to identify Theodoros and Arycelle in comments for anyone who wants the pieces put together. If you want a starting point for figuring them out yourself, the former is a very convoluted reference to a prior Final Fantasy. Arycelle was a character in Tactics Ogre-- the connection is more (literally) symbolic than anything else.
> 
> * * *
> 
> You will note Hades' field of study. Snag et al does not subscribe to the fan theory that Hades was styled Architect, FWIW. The textual support just isn't there for me. Sciomancy is divination via the shades of the dead-- his Tales from the Shadows chapter indicates pretty strongly to me that this is the qualifier for the Emet-Selch title, from what Hythlodaeus says in it.


	31. Unwound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snagged aether may be unwound. Bonds are not so easily erased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild bloodplay. A little teeth. Some choking. Ill-defined D/s. Suggested denial.

It is with supreme irritation that Unfortunate finds that the exercises she's gone through with Emet-Selch have worked _exactly_ as intended. With ironclad will, her aetherial senses feel so much _sharper_, control so much more precise. She gathers her own aether, feeling with clarity precisely how she might bend and guide its flow. So too does Emet-Selch's advice become far less nebulous now that he is guiding her through specific (and oh so very frustratingly elementary, that she can tell without the binds of aether between them carrying that from him) techniques.

He slips his aether around hers with unsettling ease, not unlike Sidurgu reaching around her to correct her stance with a greatsword but so much more intimate, a closeness that belies how he sits several fulms away, loudly slurping coffee. She can feel his breath on the back of her neck, though it isn't even _there_.

The feel of aether flowing between her fingers, the exquisite subtleties of power and form she works through is intoxicating, and she sets herself to these studies like a woman obsessed. She returns to Mist but rarely over the next couple weeks, dropping off notes and papers, picking up texts that seem even a little bit relevant.

In an attempt to feel like she's actually doing more than one and only one thing, she takes to the Manufactory as well, nodding along with the instructor (what was her name again? Jane? Julia? Joye? Yes, Joye) and stirring minute currents of aether to adjust her aim as she shoots at a row of bottles set up for practice. Perhaps bullets aren't supposed to curve like that, but she'd miss her mark if they didn't.

Maybe this isn't helping either her marksmanship or her vague notion that she should be doing something besides chasing this aether-high, but, well. If she were the sort of person who made good decisions, she'd never have left her village, or maybe she'd be buried deep in the libraries in Ul'dah, one thaumaturge amongst dozens.

She does feel a little bit guilty that she avoids House Fortemps. It's not that she doesn't want to see them-- the Count, current or former, would be more than a welcome sight. But they'd urge her to stay with them, which could only be awkward what with her work. And the affection... no, that's not what she wants right now. She's never known what to do with the notion of having a father, which Edmont seems to have become for her. It's a sort of closeness that's strange and offputting, overwhelming in its moments but hard to deal with for very long.

A box of tart lemon squares in hand, Unfortunate bustles out of a bakery with a nearly-forgotten admonishment from Ardbert burning her ears anew. But she has no better answer now than she ever did. She stops to buy a quarter-ponze of coffee beans instead and has the grocer grind them there, cranking them slowly through a grinder that looks far too large.

He will, of course, complain that she coffee is La Noscean. But this is Ishgard, and even that is a rare luxury for here, and she's not about to leave town just to get something imported from the New World. Not for him, anyway.

She indulges in a small luxury on the way back to the inn, and stops in at a little place where a young woman firmly files her nails smooth and re-lacquers them the crimson of new blood shed upon snow. Unfortunate has been about this for long enough now that she only feels a little ungainly here, amongst the delicate Ishgardian noblewomen being seen to, hearing the gossip about the young Lord so-and-so.

Her hands get slathered in lotions and covered with thin sheets of muslin to hold the moisture in. After a moment's hesitation, Unfortunate accedes to a similar procedure on her face, though she gets scrubbed at and squeezed at first, thin scars gently rubbed and patted. The aesthetician prattles at her, complimenting how soft her hair has gotten, wondering about what an occasion she must have planned.

"No," says Unfortunate, taking care not to disturb the cloths plastered against her face. "Nothing special. It's just for me." She closes her eyes and lets herself be fussed over, marvels that her skin can feel so soft once all the wraps are peeled away.

Back at the inn, she sets out the lemon squares on a plate and sets up the boilmaster for coffee. She briefly touches the smooth backs of her hands, and goes to draw a bath.

She closes her hand around a bar of soft, dense soap, made from rich oils and scented of a flower she only knows from tea. Jasmine: too floral for her tastes, but in soap and along with whatever other flowers and herbs, Unfortunate finds it pleasant enough. It had appeared unasked-for next to an empty tray that had once held tarts, wrapped neatly in glassine. It had not been there until the moment he'd left.

Out of curiosity, she'd taken a tiny sliver of it and melted it down in her smallest crucible, using a lens to try to identify what sort of oils might have been used to make such a creamy soap. Her results are inconclusive, which isn't terribly surprising. Olive oil, she thinks, is the bulk of it. Some sorts of butters. Faint aroma of almond.

Well, whatever it is, it leaves her hair soft and shining, opalescent in the light. Emet-Selch has yet to say a word about it in the sessions since he left it; she knows he's noticed, doesn't need an aetherial tether to follow the lines of his half-lidded eyes, the tension in his affected frown.

Unfortunate lathers her hair with the soap, works it deep into her curls. Every hair against her fingers runs silkily into the next, a strange, creamy texture as she squeezes suds through the thick locks. The slick sensation collects beneath her clean nails, against her fingertips.

Her own fingers, her own hair, her own body. Centred within, wholly aware, wholly feeling. A shudder works its way through her body, raising the pale hairs on her arms to stand on end, however briefly.

She rinses herself clean, shutting her eyes. Unfortunate pulls the plug with her toes and sits there, feeling the water drain from around her. She sits there like that for a few moments more before rising to towel herself dry. When her hair is dry enough, she combs through it with her fingers, untangling it enough to finish drying safely.

Getting into a morose mood again. Damn it. She exhales and scoops up her clothes, padding out into the main room.

She isn't alone. Emet-Selch has already seated himself primly in his usual chair, having helped himself to a cup of coffee; only crumbs remain of one of the lemon squares. Unfortunate jumps, letting her clothes fall; she hurriedly pulls out a bathrobe and belts it on. Her cheeks burn as he glances in her direction. "You're early," she says hoarsely, and pours herself a cup of coffee for herself. Tea would be better, but she's not fussing with all that right now.

"Perhaps I missed your _delightful_ company," says Emet-Selch, gesturing her toward her chair. Unfortunate pointedly takes extra time stirring sugar into the coffee. The Ascian leans forward and takes another lemon square.

"No, really," says Unfortunate, tightening the belt and moving to sit down, clutching her coffee mug. "You, I think, have never been early for anything in your life. Fashionably late. Actually late. Precisely on time. But early? No. Never." She claims a lemon square before they all get hogged. The man has somewhat of a tart tooth.

One eyebrow lifts in a disdainful arch. "You hardly have the experience to make such a claim." He fixes his gaze on her for a long moment, giving her time to get a few bites into her square. "Regardless, let us move on from such... pettiness. I am here _now_."

Unfortunate rolls her eyes. "Yes. Yes you are. Where shall we begin today, then?"

Emet-Selch remains silent while he finishes his lemon square, then drains his coffee. Setting the mug aside, he says, "You've reached a point where we should at least _attempt_ another disentangling. I have no desire to spend more time tethered to you than I must."

She presses her lips tight around her coffee mug, taking a slow sip. "I see," she says. Well, that explains why he's early. She too takes her time with her coffee. Enjoys her lemon square. "All right. I'll follow your lead. What do you need me to do?"

"As we've been over," says Emet-Selch. He lifts a hand casually. "Simply bring your aether into steady alignment and maintain that while I work."

Which is easier said than done. This is not a matter of holding still, as it had seemed on the very first attempt. Unfortunate closes her eyes and leans back in her chair, drawing her awareness to the flows of aether that comprise her being. The tether there, his aether mingling into hers; she 'lifts' it and begins to shape the rest, bringing it into motion. It is not unlike an exercise of black magic, though not drawn to violence.

And there are refinements to be made that Shatotto never conceived of. Unfortunate spins her aether, letting the motion itself bring the broad stabilization she needs while she draws out stabilizing lines to the aether around her. Inward, a gentle biasing of alignments and to create a natural current, to make the spin self-sustaining. Outward, to prevent overloading herself, to regulate the motion of aether.

From here she makes the delicate adjustments to slow the spin, bringing it steady and adjusting the edge. The shape she envisions is serrated, somewhere between the teeth of a sawblade and that of a gear: prepared to interlock and dig deep. Her skin tingles dimly, as if happening to a body a thousand malms a way. Her chest expands with a breath, deep and fluid. Her lips move: sound emerges. "Whenever you're ready."

It's no wonder that she needs to take such steps with her own aether; the sheer density of power that moves within Emet-Selch is mind-boggling. For all his tremendous finesse, there is so _much_ there it must require every ilm of control to ensure she is not crushed. How did she ever stand against him?

Aether flows, interlocking with hers, matching the spin as she is engulfed in his astrality. Her teeth scrape her lower lip; a chill runs through her body as the edges seep together, melding but distinct, and he takes the tangled threads of aether that join the two together. Aetherial fingers gently slip between the strands, parting them, creating a gap between his aether and hers. Unfortunate shudders, but holds her stabilizing threads in place.

Tension vibrates up the sensitive aetherial bond; Unfortunate cannot tell whose it is, or if it is simple 'physical' stress as Emet-Selch eases up and down the beating current of power, drawing it further and further apart. Heat washes through her, tightening her throat. She shuts her eyes, feeling very aware of the pressure of her glasses against her nose.

A tight little pinch takes hold of her aether, almost physical in the force. Unfortunate's back arches; she presses her shoulders back to her chair. Vision blurring, she feels her aether wobble, one of her grounding lines threaten to come loose. An irritated hiss echoes in her ears, lingering far longer than he must have actually spent on it.

She strains, guiding her turbulent aether back to stability, reinforcing the outflow. Emet-Selch pauses his work, holding the parting strands while she draws her aether back through his, melding into a seamless marbled blur. Air hisses through her teeth as he resumes guiding the tangle apart, finally, finally letting the parted aether drip back down to hers, to his, flowing it home.

Her ears ring and throb as she feels Emet-Selch unwind the aether all the way down, until he's dipping deep into her own aetherflow, stroking away clinging bits of adhering energy. It feels like feathers brushing over her skin, raising goosebumps everywhere as he pulls his own aether away. Unfortunate shivers and slowly lifts her inflows, slowing the spin of her aether. She alternates with removing her outward taps, letting everything return to a natural pulse as the Ascian draws away fully.

Unfortunate shuts her eyes, feeling through her aether. The sensation of it is different as she flexes and furls her power, drawing it tight like a cloak. That strange tugging that bespoke the aetherial snag is gone, with nothing impacting the motion. There is no impression of the man across from her as she looks at him; to not be aware of his disdain feels somehow wrong now. He frowns to himself, not looking at her; by motion of aether she can tell he's taking similar inventory.

The fire crackles loudly in her ears, the wood burning away its secrets. She is in this moment aware of every single goosebump prickling her skin. "I believe it worked," she says hoarsely. Her voice is strange in her ears: singular, echoing in the spreading silence.

"Hmmm," says Emet-Selch. He drags the sound out, the note rising in the back of his nose. His aether stirs and coils in on itself, electrifying the air, sending a faint, high-pitched whine humming through Unfortunate's ears. When he speaks, the words form sharp-edged but velvet-coated, damping the other noises around. "Of course it did. Anything else would be a pure waste of my time."

The lie of his surety rings softly; Unfortunate allows it to remain. "I suppose that I ought to thank you," she says, watching him. He too is watching her, his expression oddly neutral. Even without the tie between them, the tangle of emotion in his shaded eyes is crystal clear. If there was any answer that he might have sought by touching her aether so, she knows he has not found it.

"You _ought_ to," he says breezily, flipping one hand at her. "But do you intend to, dear hero?"

Unfortunate rises, stands in front of Emet-Selch's seat. The hairs on the back of her arms hum with the resonance of the air. She grasps his narrow chin between her fingers, and it occurs in this moment that this is only the second time she's ever touched his bare skin. She tilts his head upward, heedless of the way his eyes widen. "Thank you," says Unfortunate, from deep in her throat, and she bends, and she kisses him.

His lips are softer than any she's felt before. Why does that not surprise her? His lips would never be rough or chapped or peeling. She feels the breath coming through his nose against her cheek, the tension in his posture, the moments winding toward decision. Unfortunate releases his chin, and he does not draw away. She does, leaning her head back only a few ilms, looking down at him.

Emet-Selch lifts one hand, still wearing that clawed glove, and curls it tight in her hair, scraping against her scalp. He pulls her head to an awkward angle that lets him look down at her. "Such presumption," he hisses upon her lips, the heat in his voice enough to burn. Then he leans in, pulling her head further down, and his teeth sink into her lower lip.

Ah, the pain! She grabs his other wrist, pinning it to the chair's armrest, and slides onto his lap. She forces her head against his grip into a less-bent posture, and drags her tongue against the meeting of teeth and lip, tasting the hint of blood. His nostrils flare and he digs in against her hair, yanking her head just aside, pulling at her lip with his teeth before letting go. His breath washes her face, so much effort going into keeping it measured.

Unfortunate pulls off her glasses, sets them aside with the coffee mugs, and leans in to kiss him again, harder. She parts her lips and presses her tongue into his mouth, their chests tight up against each other. His grip in her hair eases some as he too guides his tongue against hers into her mouth, pressing against teeth, feeling, heavy, invasive. She tastes the echoes of sweet lemon curd, dark, barely-sugared coffee, and ever-lingering pain. Against her pressing hand, through glove and sleeve, she feels the drumbeat of his pulse, ceaseless.

He relinquishes his grip on her hair and tugs at her bathrobe, his hand finding its way inside, sharp-pointed clawtips pressing sharply against one breast. She swallows his heavy breath and raises her free hand, curling it around his throat. Unfortunate feels him swallow against her palm; she shifts her grip and begins to _squeeze._ Ahh, he's not expecting that; she feels his whole body tense beneath her.

Each breath she catches becomes more and more laboured, more precious as it struggles against her grip, stuttering over the tangle of their tongues. Those three skin-warmed metal claws dig deeper against her breast, almost, almost but not yet breaking the skin, and it makes her own air taste sweeter for knowing how easily he could. She tightens her hand slowly, holding that until the breaths become thin, jagged, spread apart. She holds his air in her hand, feels his _need_. Oh, when she releases her grasp, and he inhales desperately, gulping the air, gulping _her_ air, yes, any doubts she might have yet had flicker away like dust in the breeze.

She breaks the kiss, a thin line of saliva joining their tongues that she snaps with a little twist. Emet-Selch's chest heaves; the claws precisely break the skin, just barely, sending a thrill down her spine. "I'm going to fuck you," she says, the words so precise as she puffs each one out against his face. Against her lap, she can feel what she's always known; just how truly _affected_ the Ascian is.

Only now does he try to lift his pinned hand, pressing up against her, but she leans into it, holding his wrist flat to the arm of the chair. "As if I'd allow you the pleasure," he hisses, twisting his claws and dragging them slowly. Unfortunate shifts, loosening her robe and pulling it open, away from the blood that starts to well up around his claws.

Unfortunate now releases Emet-Selch's hand, just long enough to pinch the claws of that glove between her fingers and starts pulling it loose. "Oh, you misunderstand me completely," she says, leaning in to kiss him greedily. "I said _I'm_ going to fuck _you_," She grinds against his lap, against the growing stiffness she feels through the layers of robes. She tugs the other two fingers loose, then pulls the glove free, baring his right hand.

He takes her hand, fingers lacing between hers and holding tightly. "Do you think to _scandalize_ me?" says Emet-Selch heavily, tilting his head, pressing his mouth under her chin. His teeth scrape her skin; he drags his still-clawed hand across her breast before lifting it away. He breathes hotly on her damp skin, "You wouldn't know where to begin."

"Don't flatter yourself," says Unfortunate, grabbing his earring between her teeth. With both hands now she paws over his robes, searching for a closure. "We'll see who's allowing whom _pleasure_."

She thinks she's found where to open the damn thing when a sharp sensation pierces at her ear. "The fuck," she mutters, turning her head away from Emet-Selch. He pauses, teeth pressed to her throat. Linkpearl. Lotus', by the feeling of the sound. Wouldn't use it outside of a dire situation. Unfortunate pulls her hand away from Emet-Selch's robes and bends strands of aether in the room, reaching, cupping, reeling them closer. She lets go as her fingers take hold of the pearl.

Unfortunate fits it into place, doesn't care to mince words. "Damn it, Lotus, I am _trying_ to fuck a man up the ass," she hisses, giving the Ascian's earlobe another bite to drive the point home. Her roommate's irritation rings through her side of the conversation. Right now, Unfortunate cannot begin to care. "Fucking-- fine, I'll come home as soon as I'm done here."

But no, oh, no, that's not good enough for Lotus, which means something had better literally be on fire. A large fire. She grits her teeth. "Let me get dressed." She tosses the pearl over one shoulder and curls her fingers in Emet-Selch's hair.

Her turn now to pull his head up by the hair. She squeezes his hand with her other. "Well," she says. "Seems like you get a stay of execution."

"I should be insulted," says Emet-Selch, recovering his poise enough despite the way she's gripping his hair. A lazy smirk settles on his lips. "Leaving? Right _now_?"

Unfortunate looks him over, at the glove on the floor. Feels the stiffness against her lap. "Nn," she says. "She wouldn't call for me like this if it wasn't important. But it does seem so rude to just... ah." A Mhachi aesthetic comes to her mind. She smiles, slowly, and presses a final kiss to his mouth. The aether in the room will suffice for this; this is not about _force_, and this will not draw it out of natural flow. She draws his hand back down to the arm of the chair; she reaches and she weaves aether into midnight blue solidity, shining-slick, snugly holding his bared wrist in place. "You'll wait for me."

His eyebrows raise, but his head tilts in assent. "Perhaps," he says. "Pray I do not grow _bored_."

She slides off his lap, reaches down to curl her fingers around his cock, through his robe. "Mhm. You won't. You've got a lot to think about. And you wouldn't touch this without me." That's not a question. She smiles at him, showing her teeth, before she peels her robe off. The pain in her breast reminds her; she glances down to see the bleeding's stopped. No need to take care of that, then. Unfortunate picks up her glasses and dresses unhurriedly.

Nothing else for it, then. Unfortunate focuses on the aetheryte endpoint she has at home and aligns her own aether toward closing the gap. In a moment, she's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So liquid shampoo is definitely far out of period, after investigation. [This](https://www.lush.ca/en/hair/shampoo-bars/godiva/02392.html) surely is too, but would be far more explicable to someone like Unfortunate.


	32. Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunate recorporealizes in Mist, seething quietly. The late night silence outside her home has a strange depth to it, absorbing the miasma of her irritation.

Aether runs taut into her home, not in the lazy pools that characterize the village. She hesitates with one hand on the doorknob. Could it be that there's some sort of danger? It would explain the urgency, but... damn it. She's stalling. Unfortunate steps inside.

The scene just inside her front door is a little much to take in all at once. Lotus pacing in the front hall. Esty running in from the library after hopping down from the arms of-- "Lotus..." Unfortunate says warily. "Why is there an Ascian inside my house?"

Lotus manages to step around the cat now winding himself around Unfortunate's legs and waves a finger in her face. "Why was there an Ascian inside my godsdamned snatch, _Unfortunate_?"

She blinks, backing up a step, nearly pinning herself to the door. "I--" she says, trying to not trip on the cat. Only possible reason she could be stumbling on words. "You're really very attrac-- I mean, how should _I_ know, I'm not his mother. Did you _ask_ him?"

"Hm," he says, unhelpfully.

"_That's_ what you have to say for yourself?" says Lotus, now also getting her leg rubbed by the oblivious cat. "Don't act like you don't know what's going on. An Ascian _fucked_ me to try to spy on you, and _you know why_. So tell me, asshole."

Unfortunate tries to look for a way she can squirm aside, but for all that Lotus is smaller than she is, that doesn't mean she's easy to evade. "Why in every hell would I know why?" She can guess, sure. But how's she to know what goes on in any Ascian's head, let alone one she's conversed with all of, what, twice? The question of why he'd try to spy on her at all rises, only to be swatted aside. Even _without_ her recent activities, the Ascians should want to spy on her. Not a great move for trust-building, mind, but of course there's not much trust to go around, under the circumstances.

Lotus has no time for Unfortunate's navel-gazing. "I swear to fuck if you lie to me one more time, I'm going to punch you in the godsdamned mouth. Why are Ascians going through _me_ to sort through your _fucking_ underwear drawer?"

The first avenue of escape Unfortunate finds is swiftly blocked by the cat, purring loudly. "He's _right there_," says Unfortunate. "Is this really the time or place or, Halone's frigid _tits_, I swear I don't know why he'd want to fuck anybody, I--"

The fist in her face sends her head slamming back into the door and knocks her glasses off one ear. "I _saw_ you in your fucking room in Ishgard sitting around with a godsdamned Ascian, and before you say something, no, not some jackass in an Ascian costume for your weird fetish, I mean the _first emperor of Garlemald_."

Presented with two options, Unfortunate only sees one that makes any sense at all. "That's insane," she says, looking once more for an avenue of escape. "I _killed_ him. Yeah, we talked a fair bit before that, maybe more than I should have, but are you sure you didn't just see the Cryst--"

This one knocks Unfortunate's glasses to the ground. She drops to try to pick them up, pausing to dab blood from where her teeth have split her lip. Unfortunate rises, pointing herself away from the door; she glances toward the library. Elidibus is putting on a very good show of not paying attention; he's started leafing through a book. Estinyan trots back over to him, does a figure-eight through his legs, and hops up onto the chair.

"When'd you turn into such a lying sack of shit?" Lotus hauls Unfortunate up by the collar; the otherworldly material doesn't even budge from holding that weight. "_I saw you_."

Unfortunate tries to catch her breath; with the same thought she seizes hold of her own aether, bringing it into umbrality. "I'm not the one who fucked you," she says through gritted teeth. "_That_ has nothing to do with me. So, _Emissary_, what the fuck?"

The book he's been perusing thumps shut. Elidibus bends to pick up Esty from the chair; the cat headbutts the Ascian's chin. Traitor. "Are you certain you wish for me to arbitrate this dispute of yours? You may not find yourself pleased."

"Arbitrate, my ass," says Unfortunate, slowly discharging aether to gradually chill Lotus' fingers. "You're as thick in this as anyone else. So what are you doing here?"

Elidibus tilts his head, a thin smirk spreading across his lips. "I thought to see for myself what might have led you to reach out to me. If perhaps one of your cohorts shared in your knowledge, it would behoove me to investigate. It seemed unlikely you'd be acting alone-- it would be extraordinarily foolish to reconstruct an Ascian's shattered soul and re-embody it, then offer your assistance to us without at least some manner of insurance on your part."

"You _what_?"

The cold spreads enough that Lotus releases Unfortunate's dress for long enough that she can get away, back pointing to the kitchen. There's a window there, might be a tight fit, if she has to, but... "That's entirely out of context."

"No," says Elidibus. "It isn't."

Lotus spins on Unfortunate, one eye also on Elidibus. "What context would possibly justify any of that?"

Another angle. Got to be another angle. Okay, how about a distraction. Unfortunate slides one foot backwards. "It doesn't explain at all why you'd fuck her. Which, I mean, it's _fine_ if you both want to do that, but obviously that's-- what, was he not any good?"

Just because Unfortunate is _expecting_ the punch in the mouth this time that doesn't mean she's all that ready for it; Lotus' fist sends her into the wall; she stays standing but just because she manages to catch the table. "You're such an _asshole_, Unfortunate."

Elidibus, on the other hand, doesn't seem agitated by the barb. "It was an opportunity to investigate both one of your compatriots and your own personal effects. Had all gone according to plan, no harm would have been done. Regrettably, Sundering did little to dampen the mischievous natures of _these_ creatures." He lifts Estinyan from the chair, and casually scratches the cat's neck with his claws.

Unfortunate gaps at him for a moment or two. "So fucking her I guess under false pretenses and rooting through my things was supposed to be just fine because _nobody was supposed to find out_?" She spins on Lotus. "How am _I_ the asshole here? Rhalgr's ass, just _stab_ him or something, just don't have him bleed on my books."

Indeed, Lotus seems torn between going for her sword and nailing Unfortunate to the wall on what Elidibus let slip just there. That's good. The more room Unfortunate has to breathe, the better, the bigger the chance she has of making this work. Regrettably, the distraction can only go so far. "Fuck it. That can wait. What in every hell have you been up to? Reconstructing souls? Re-embodying them? _Offering your assistance to Ascians_?"

Shit. Shit. How does she make this sound good? This is why she didn't _tell_ anyone, there's no way to make this sound good. "It's not like how it sounds," she says, scrabbling for the best possible way to put this. "I figured out a way to solve everything. Calamities. Hydaelyn's weakness. Why Zodiark is trying to kill us. _Everything_. I can make things _right_, Lotus."

"Do you have any idea how insane you sound?" says Lotus, glaring daggers at her. "I have no idea what's going on in that head of yours or how that explains, let alone justifies, a damn thing."

Unfortunate waves a hand sharply. "I _told_ you. Emet-Selch and I talked a lot. The things I learned-- everything became so _clear_! Things that have been lost for so long, I can't even begin to imagine... anyway, the point is, Zodiark, it, he was made _wrong_, and I can _fix_ him! If I do that, I can make _everything_ right. This isn't even a little bit of madness-- if I were wrong, Hydaelyn would never permit me to take this road. I just, I don't have the tools yet to do it, I need to know more, I..."

"Hm."

Lotus smacks her forehead. "You _know_ that makes you sound more crazy, not less. But even if you're not, which is a _giant_ if, you could be talking to Y'shtola, you could be talking to Urianger, or you found G'raha over there, he knows all of the Allagan stuff. Instead, it's _Ascians_? You're-- you're, what, resurrecting dead Ascians now? Whatever happened to 'Lotus, I'm pretty sure my guildmaster's gone batshit, he's trying to raise the dead'?"

"Well, that's how I knew an alchemical solution wasn't the answer," says Unfortunate. "Because it kind of worked, but only for a few minutes, and anyway, he got a lot better after all of that. I mean, nobody had a serious answer for how to re-assemble a soul from the shattered pieces so that was the really complicated bit, along with not having a body, but it turns out creating things is really just a question of where you're sourcing your aether from because--"

"Oh my god, shut up," says Lotus, burying her face in her hands. "I don't care _how_ you did it. Why? Just, why?"

Unfortunate's lips settle into a frown. "Neither Y'shtola nor Urianger know what I need to know. Nor will they ever. Even if they did, if I'm to set things to rights, I either need the Ascians to comply-- or I need to kill them all. I'm no longer willing to do that. It was of paramount importance that I undo the wrong that I had done with Emet-Selch, if it was within my power. And it was. I believe he has been working in his own way to solve this..." Unfortunate looks away, teeth sliding over her lower lip. She rubs her hand against the wall, exhaling. "And then, of course-- you think I'm mad. Y'shtola would too. Maybe Urianger wouldn't, but he doesn't solve the problem. Nowhere else to turn."

Lotus just sounds somehow both exhausted and disgusted. "After everything they've done. I, you... he was the _Emperor_ of _Garlemald_. The sheer number of atrocities he's responsible for within our lifetimes alone--"

"-- and far beyond ours," says Unfortunate. She straightens. "I know. He engineered Allag, too. And who knows what else. I know far, far better than you do what he's done. What they've all done. But I--"

This more than anything for a while seems to incite Lotus; she whirls on Unfortunate, waves a finger in her face. "You know what, I don't think you actually do. Remember Ala Mhigo? _I_ remember all your stupid handwringing about what to feel about the place on account of your mom. Well, you don't know _shit_. She got _out_. Before things even got seriously bad! And you got to grow up somewhere _safe_. I lived through it! Saw with my own eyes worse things than you _ever_ have. And you just... 'oh, I don't think the man responsible for all of that deserved to die, so I'm going to discover how to raise the dead'. You _piece_ of _shit_!"

"If that's what I've got to do," says Unfortunate. "_Regardless_ of what they've done, the Ascians are all that remains of... of something that was beautiful. I can't let that pass from the world. And if I'm to set the world to rights, you know, look, I don't want to bean-count people's lives. Nothing that's been done can be undone. But this will be a way to a better future. If that means a monster lives? Yes. And to put that much knowledge and power to a better end? There's no forgiving what's been done. But there would be so much more suffering to leave that fallow. I..." She slides a hand under her spectacles, rubbing her face.

"... are assuming a _hell_ of a lot, not least is that none of them--" Lotus waves at Elidibus. Esty meows. "-- are going to try to pull a fast one. Which he has _already done_, let me remind you. When I say you need to actually take control of what you do instead of just letting the Scions jerk you around like the rest of us, that's _not what I mean_!"

"Well, I didn't do this because you're strangling with the Scions," says Unfortunate softly. "I'm _sorry_ this came down on you. No one else was supposed to be involved. You getting hurt is the last thing I wanted to come of this. But I..."

Lotus turns away, making a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "'Nobody was supposed to find out' isn't any more okay when you say it than when _he_ does. Shit. You know I can't just do nothing. I'm not keeping your fucking secrets." She stalks over to Elidibus and snatches the cat from his arms. Esty, far more good-natured than his namesake, takes this in stride, and purrs audibly despite the forcible relocation.

A moment of hesitation passes as Lotus adjusts her grip on Estinyan, holding him tight with her left arm. Still standing in front of Elidibus, she says, "You don't need to keep that body, anyway." In a move so fluid, Unfortunate can barely do more than blink stupidly, she draws her rapier and goes for a decidedly ungraceful gut-thrust, striking with such force that he stumbles backwards. She jerks the blade upward, deepening the blow before yanking it outward, sending a spray of blood right at one of Unfortunate's bookshelves.

Blood dripping from her sword onto the carpet, Lotus rapidly cycles her own aether, accelerating it through her sword and back in through her focus. In seconds, she and the cat are gone.

Unfortunate blinks twice, and slowly closes her mouth. She says hoarsely at the bleeding Ascian, "I mean, you did deserve that. Just... just get yourself a new body, or something." She bats away aether from Elidibus' grasp without so much as a second thought. It shouldn't be so easy but he is, to be fair, quite impaired at the moment.

"Well, shit," mutters Unfortunate. "She stole my cat."


	33. Epilogue: A Fragment of a Report to the Convocation of the Fourteen

_"... While indeed the concerns regarding sending those with our particular gifts to investigate the devastation caused by the uncontrolled creation are valid, both I and Irenaeus agree that the value has been worth the risk._

_Those who hear the sound are not noticeably changed on either the aural or aetheric spectra (the latter confirmed by our diviner-- Emet-Selch she is not, but she is more than sufficiently skilled for these purposes), nor is there a particular change in their behaviour. One who has been touched by the sound is_ _indistinguishable from any other being; they are aware they have been affected, and are able to perceive their own creations going awry prior to spontaneous creation beginning. It affects a localized area in pulses; the time between is irregular, and a pattern has not yet been determined, though it appears to strike a wider area each time._

_Our expedition had the misfortune to be caught within one of these pulses. Our companions described it as rising from the depths of the earth, sounding as though the world was ripping herself apart. It is with deepest regret and sorrow that I inform you that rather than contribute to the spread of destruction, all chose to render their energies unto the Underworld. I leave what to inform their families and the public to you._

_Which brings me to why it is of paramount importance that I and Irenaeus embarked on this task. Our experiences were one and the same and has left our magics unaffected, as his report will doubtless confirm. When the sound tolled from the heart of the world, what occurred is something that disturbed me in a way I had not thought possible. For the very first time in my life, I heard something that I thought I had understood, but discovered has been wholly absent from my being, perhaps since birth:_

_I heard nothing at all. ..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this, Snag is ended. The story will continue in Snare. [ Watch this space for future developments.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561837)
> 
> <s>Some minor edits are likely to be forthcoming earlier in the story-- corrections to aether aspecting for accuracy, and if we ever definitively (as opposed to speculating re: the mask on Gaius' belt) rule out that specific Convocation title or are definitively assigned one for the WoL, I will straight-up head back to retcon, that sort of thing. It is a paramount goal of mine to ensure I am writing a story that is, if not canon-compliant (a foolish notion for most fanfic that isn't pure plotless character study) but is always canon-viable. However, as we move beyond what the game has laid out, here seems a good place to lay a break between something written wholly with known ground beneath it and something that must by its nature venture into new territory. 5.2 will doubtless impact the work and keep me from venturing wholly into the woods, but we'll see.</s> 5.2 didn't change anything but 5.3 did. See the following chapter for what changed if you're curious or have read this before. 
> 
> As always, thanks to [AuntAgony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuntAgony/pseuds/AuntAgony), my beta the whole way through and owner and creator of Lotus Eater, who has taken on rather a more important role than I ever imagined when we were just tossing funny ideas around...


	34. Patch Notes

As is to be expected with as heavily a lore observant fic as this one is, when new material comes out, not everything is accurate anymore. In a fully completed storyline this would be fine and I could just leave it, but with Snare ongoing (patch drought and quarantine did a number on my output but it is, I assure you, still going!!) certain edits need to be made. At least, with how I like to go about things.

So, here is a complete list of edits made to the assorted chapters of Snag for continuity and clarity (not just for 5.3, since while I'm in here, why not clean up some janky phrasing?). 

Spoilers for 5.3 below.

1/Like Someone Else's Pain: No changes.

2/Mortal Forms: "pours a half-inch to start" corrected to "half-ilm". No further changes. The "Warrior of Light" paragraph was written during 5.0 and is unaltered. I called it.

3/A Subtle and Insidious Power: "I tried to convince myself to just let it all go." Italicized 'I' and 'my' for further clarity that this is the DRK 30-50 questline being referred to here.

4/Polyglot: All references to Fandaniel changed to Azem.

\- The sentence "Souveniers and mementos of journies glitter in places of reverence, moments preserved in time like amber." inserted before "A lace of meaning..."

\- "holding such a role, but..." altered to "holding such a role, not least because of their own inclination to introversion. Far too many would call them too timid, too self-directed. But-- no, not Azem, _Irenaeus_ knows them too well, sees how that nature drives them to treasure every connection forged."

5/Aflame with Light: "light-aspected besides, which she doubts the Mhachi artifact could process" changed to "purely umbral besides, which without any astrality would likely strangle the Mhachi artifact"

6/Too Little Too Late: "(no, not like that, never again like that)" altered to "(no, not like that)"

7/Ascendancy: Again, references to Fandaniel changed to Azem. Regulator changed to Shepherd. Note blowing my own horn about the elaborate reference deleted.

\- "Then does Lahabrea return, bearing a crimson mask in both hands. He does not fit it to Chrysanthe's face; rather he places it in their hand. They take the cue for what it is and raise it themself, securing it carefully. At Lahabrea's nod, they raise their cowl, and withdraw their head into the depths of their hood." changed to 

"Then does Lahabrea return, bearing a midnight mask in one hand and a fiery crystal in the other. He does not fit the mask to Chrysanthe's face; rather he places it in their hand. They take the cue for what it is and raise it themself, securing it carefully. Only then does he press the crystal into their hand; the voices of memories dance in their soul. Advice, admonishments, anecdotes; all vie for their attention. They but take a moment to absorb the gravity of the honour. Plenty of time ahead to learn all of what their forebears left for them. Here is for the now.

They open their eyes and gaze upward. At Lahabrea's nod, they raise their cowl, and withdraw their head into the depths of their hood."

8/Xenoglossy: No changes.

9/Inferno and Abyss: "Rather than the click of stones," becomes "What she hears is not the click of stones:"

\- "through it she embraces the astral, so powerful and so plentiful here. Part of her wants to laugh: laugh at being so bold to channel her opponent's own element, and for turning this warrior's stone to pure magecraft." becomes "through it she aligns her energies to the astral, synchronizing herself to the aetherflows here. Part of her wants to laugh: laugh at being so bold to channel her opponent's own nature, and for turning this warrior's stone to pure magecraft."

\- "For he is majestic, bouyed by wings" becomes "For he is glorious, bouyed by wings"

\- "Foolish, too much, too much" becomes "Foolish, so much, too much"

10/Was yea ra yor hartes mea: Convocation title corrected to Azem.

\- "And, Chrysanthe admits, sometimes they can get a little lost in themself when they get to work, so maybe it's not surprising that they can't get into these things on their own." becomes "And, Chrysanthe admits, their own work absents themself from the city so often, so maybe it's not surprising that they can't catch when tickets become available."

\- Inserted "Or Mitron and Loghrif." after "But Halmarut and Deudalaphon are together, aren't they?"

11/Scars: No changes

12/Access Management: No changes

13/Theory/Practice: "Even with her nonexistent knowledge of aetherochemistry, and barely more proficient math" becomes "Even with her limited knowledge of aetherochemistry, and less proficient math"

14/Messages: Short form of Estinyan's name finally consistently changed to Estie.

15/That which can yet be saved: "thy experience" becomes "thine experience"

16/Meaning Without Words: spelling "infelects" corrected to "inflects"

17/Dissolution: "'You're--' 'Hythlodaeus,'" becomes "'You're-- Hythlodaeus.' 'You remembered,'"

\- "Hythlodaeus' words become more distant as she sinks deeper into it" to "Hythlodaeus' voice becomes more distant as she sinks deeper into the flow of construction"

18/The Perpetuity of Silence: No changes.

19/What Needs no Purpose: Title corrected to Azem.

\- "It serves no purpose other than to be beautiful." becomes "It resonates with the surrounding aether, acting as a sort of mobile ley line net. A small thing to protect you on your travels."

20/Retreat Where Lesser Men Lead: "But even I have seen sundered reincarnations of those who had surrendered to the Lifestream before that tragedy. You have viewed her soul. Tell me: is it truly impossible that we are dealing with the current incarnation of our former Regulator?" replaced with "But is it impossible that the ruins of such gifts might recur and be exploited? Hydaelyn is not above manipulation of circumstance to her own advantage."

\- "Their souls are... similarly coloured." becomes "But even before the end, it was a vanishingly rare gift."

\- "I think it highly unlikely, however" Deleted 'however'.

\- "where that person could never endure causing direct harm to anything" becomes "where the only person I ever knew with such a power was unable to endure causing direct harm to anything"

\- deleted "And whatever she is, she has some inherent talent for creation-- this body you see before you is her work. It is not well-formed but she, ugh, seems to have winged it. C-- That Fandaniel would never have been able to do such a thing.". Chrysanthe being lousy at creation is pretty sufficiently established elsewhere to support the paragraph not needing it, and this form of the conversation is much more circumspect on Emet-Selch's part.

\- Replaced "Neither was our Igeyorhm but more often than not the reincarnations turned up female. Reincarnations come in all stripes." with "The gift is rare, not unique. Nor do these creatures seem to understand such nuances." The point about Ancient Igeyorhm has to stand just on the pronouns I use for xem, because I no longer particularly believe Elidibus would remember with such clarity.

\- Replaced "If I ask what you mean about she and that Fandaniel's souls being similarly coloured, is the answer going to be that they're identical?" with "Clearly there is some cunning at play in her selection as a weapon against us. Do you not see the possibility that she has compromised you?"

\- Replaced "He's not the expert on the subject, and it's not as though he and they were as close. The two only repeatedly worked together on related projects for years before and after their investitures." with "Whatever else, he feels wholly himself. His mind does not touch the other potentiality, that of a different connection entirely. No. That cannot be."

\- Deleted "Her capacity for violence is an interesting change from the person we both knew, but that seems a point of personality easily shaped by the manner of lives these current creatures lead."

21/Flee from What You Do Not See: No changes.

22/Blind Man's Bluff: "'You certainly have my attention,'" deleted 'certainly'.

23/All That is Not: No changes.

24/Focus: No changes.

25/Astral Soul: "Have you further considered her potential history?" history becomes 'influence'.

\- Deleted 'Regardless of who she is,'

26/Evasive Maneuvers: "inner thigh" becomes "chest".

27/The End and the Beginning: "no longer Regulator, no longer Protector" becomes 'no longer Shepherd"

28/Arithmetic Progression: "centring herself" corrected to "centering"

29/The Limits of Subterfuge: Every POV in this story is unreliable, but some are less reliable than others. 

\- "Confuses washes" corrected to Confusion.

30/Familiarity: More title corrections; using Irenaeus' personal name here. This makes it a little ambiguous if he has his seat yet, which is intentional given he's instructing at the Akademia and not off wandering. Not that the two are mutually exclusive.

31/Unwound: "this is the first time" becomes "this is only the second time" (she touched his face earlier)

32/Harmony: No changes.

Epilogue/A Fragment of a Report to the Convocation of the Fourteen: No changes.


End file.
